


Honey Flower, Apple and Lime

by veronamay



Series: The Tale Of The Rake And The Footman [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Class Issues, Language of Flowers, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-15
Updated: 2007-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1855. Jensen is the scion of a wealthy Dallas family, heir to a ranching empire that stretches across the American Southwest. Until now, he has led a life of carefree abandon, charming his way into boudoirs and out of entanglements by dint of his silver-tongued wit. After his father's sudden death, Jensen is sent to London by his stepmother to acquire a wife during the Season. Threatened with disinheritance should he make an unsuitable match, he arrives on the doorstep of his friend Welling's household prepared—reluctantly—to do his duty.  Everything changes, however, when he lays eyes upon the Wellings' newest footman. Padalecki is tall, strong, intelligent and beautiful—everything Jensen admires in a man. From the moment they meet, Jensen is willing to risk everything to gain the gorgeous Texan's love. But Padalecki wants nothing to do with Jensen ... or does he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Derry's artwork post for this fic is [here](http://derryderrydown.livejournal.com/915822.html).
> 
> Many, many thanks to Derry for her enthusiasm and determination, and for making the boys so pretty. ;) Also, massive thanks and smishes go to [](http://lemmealone.livejournal.com/profile)[**lemmealone**](http://lemmealone.livejournal.com/) and [](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/)**nu_breed** for beta and audiencing work above and beyond the call. Cheers, sweethearts.

_[Being a Dissertation regarding certain delicate Feelings of a Gentleman for his Manservant, as related by Persons with undisputed knowledge of the Events contained herein](http://pics.livejournal.com/veronamay/pic/0005yhca) _

**LONDON  
May, 1855**

"My, my. The scenery has improved somewhat since my last visit. Tommy, my petal, who is _that_?"

Jensen nudged his friend discreetly and gestured toward the Wellings' front door as he stepped out of the carriage. He didn't stare—an Ackles would never be so _gauche_ —but he allowed himself a second glance, stifling a sigh at the vision of beauty coming toward him.

Welling followed his gaze, then looked back at him in disbelief.

"You can't possibly be serious."

"Oh, but I am," Jensen breathed, as the vision walked by. He turned on his heel, watching through half-lidded eyes as the fellow climbed up onto the roof of the carriage and started to hand down their baggage to the footmen below. "I think I'm in love."

"I think you're in heat," Welling corrected, amused resignation in his tone. "Honestly, Jensen, a _footman_? Haven't you any standards at all?"

Jensen eyed the man standing several feet above him, smoothly hefting trunks that weighed sixty pounds or more without apparent effort, immaculate livery regrettably covering him from head to foot. Six and a half feet tall at a guess, masses of nut-brown hair tucked away in a tidy queue, wide green cat-eyes and dimples to die for: in short, Jensen's new favourite type. He couldn't take his eyes off the fellow, staring be damned.

"Of course I have standards, darling." He flicked a glance in Welling's direction, a wicked smile playing about his lips. "They're just different from yours. I do not discriminate against beauties like that no matter what their station."

"I don't want to hear about it." Welling waved a dismissive hand. "Play with him if you will—I can't stop you—but please, spare me the details."

"Delighted to," Jensen murmured, not really listening. He opened his cigarette case and lit up, lips pursed as he inhaled deep, still watching the fellow intently. "You'll understand if I extend my visit indefinitely, I'm sure."

"I expected you might." Welling's dry tones wafted back from the front door. "Are you coming in?"

"Hm?" Jensen looked up. Welling was on the doorstep, waiting for Jensen to follow him. "Oh. Yes, sorry. I'll be in directly."

He took a last draw on his cigarette and crushed it underfoot, gazing at the lithe form of his prey; then he resettled his spectacles on his nose and made his way toward the stairs.

"Oof! Hey, Irish—not so bleedin' fast, eh? Not everyone's a hulking giant like you!"

Jensen paused on the bottom step, glancing back toward the street. The servants standing beside the carriage were rubbing their shoulders and glaring up at his vision, their disgruntlement plain. "Irish" (which was utter nonsense, surely; the man was no Celt, not with those cheekbones) looked abashed, holding one of Jensen's trunks like a shield. The thing had to weigh at least thirty-five pounds, yet this paragon of male loveliness held it steady with one hand while he scratched at his ear with the other.

"Sorry," came his soft apology, and Jensen twitched, hearing a familiar drawl in his words. "I guess I got too far into the swing of it."

"Aye, well. You isn't throwing hay bales around a stable anymore, sonny. Keep an eye out, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

Chambers, the under-butler, shook an admonishing finger at him. The vision ducked his head with a sheepish grin, and Jensen caught his breath—by God, he was _beautiful_!

He already knew he had to taste those lips, run his fingers through that golden-brown sheaf of hair. Before the week was out, Jensen vowed. Married, betrothed, it made no matter; he must have him or expire of unrequited lust.

Jensen shivered, already imagining that soft voice whispering to him in the privacy of a bedroom, quiet words of need and desire curling around his spine; then he started as the fellow looked up and met his gaze without any hint of deference.

"May I help you with something, sir?"

For a moment Jensen felt exposed, as if his thoughts were plain on his face for anyone to see. The fellow's voice was perfectly respectful, yet Jensen detected something impertinent in his tone. It ought to have raised his hackles; a servant should not be speaking to him in such a manner, or indeed at all. Instead, he had to restrain a smile as the fellow raised his eyebrow the merest fraction of an inch, looking quite as haughty as any gentleman of the _ton_.

Jensen opened his mouth to speak—to say what, he had no idea—but was distracted by Welling's reappearance on the stairs.

"Jensen, do come on. Jamie won't pour the tea without you, and I'm starving."

Jensen closed his mouth and turned toward Welling, pasting a smile on his face.

"Right you are, pet. Lead the way."

He felt the footman's eyes on him all the way inside. It made him shiver in a decidedly pleasant manner. Before the week was out, he repeated to himself, or his name wasn't Ackles.

* * *

"Jensen, darling, it's been far too long." Jamie kissed him on both cheeks and stood back, smiling in admiration. "You look utterly gorgeous, you wastrel. How on earth do you do it, and after such a long journey, too?"

"I could tell you, sweeting, but I think you'd blush." Jensen winked at her, grinning when she coloured up anyway. "Let's just pretend it was the bracing sea air and save my reputation, shall we?"

"I think your reputation is set in stone by now," Welling replied, taking a seat as the tea tray was wheeled in. "There's scarcely a woman between here and Scotland that doesn't blush at the mention of your name."

"You flatter me," Jensen said, grinning. "I'm almost positive I missed a few somewhere in Manchester." He accepted cup and saucer from Jamie, sipping delicately at the fragrant brew. "Oh, ambrosia," he sighed, inhaling the steam.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" Jamie asked. "Your letters are wonderful, but you don't go into much detail."

"Why, I've been busy dodging my stepmother's attempts to marry me off," Jensen quipped. "I've become quite adept. Keeps me in fighting trim, you know. Doesn't leave a lot of time for letter-writing, unfortunately."

"How perfectly horrible for you," Welling said dryly. "Having dozens of young women paraded under your nose day and night, all of them desperate to catch your eye. And now you've come here to throw every chit in London into a frenzy of primping as well. You lead a hard life indeed."

Jensen laughed, but it was an effort to hide his instinctive shudder at Welling's words. Were circumstances different, he would not object to being surrounded by young ladies eager for his attention; his ego was as healthy as any man's. As it was, however, he found himself on the verge of fleeing his stepmother's house on a daily basis.

Jensen's mother was long dead, having expired in childbirth trying to give her husband a third son. His father, Sir Alan, was recently dead of an apoplexy at the age of fifty-four, leaving the family's finances in a tangled mess that had taken three months to unravel. The Ackles family controlled several Hereford cattle ranches in Texas and Oklahoma, providing beef to Fort Worth and other military outposts along the northern border.

The English-born son of a minor baronet, Sir Alan had arrived in Texas twenty-five years before with a brand-new American wife, ten pounds in his pocket and an insatiable thirst for wealth. He had found it in cattle, catching on to the rising wave of popularity of the Hereford breed from New England and cashing in on the unrest caused by the secession of Texas in 1836. Sensing an opportunity to carve out a reliable market for his cattle, he had borrowed heavily, using the stock itself as collateral on his loans. Within fifteen years the Ackles brand was worn by more than a hundred thousand head of stock—and the number grew as the demand for beef rose, needed to feed hungry soldiers on both sides of the Mexican-American War.

By this time, Sir Alan was no longer handling the day-to-day operation of the business. He entrusted all but the most important decisions to his second in command, a gruff fellow named Jeff Morgan, and commenced travelling to England and the Continent to source ever-hardier stock. It had been on one of these trips that he had succumbed to illness, leaving his family and business in an uproar.

The terms of Sir Alan's will had been very clear. Management of the business would remain with Morgan; but in a stroke of unfathomable stupidity (in Jensen's mind) he had left the bulk of his fortune in the hands of his second wife, with only a moderate annuity to be paid to his son.

This state of affairs did not bode well for Jensen. The current Lady Ackles had married his father five years ago, to general unease among Sir Alan's three children. She was a woman of great beauty but little intelligence, haughty and jealous of her position in Dallas society with absolutely no concept of how to administer a large fortune. Resentful of being shipped off to the wilds of America, forced to idle away her days in the midst of a dusty, backward farm town with not even a theatre for entertainment, she exercised her frustrations on those around her to the point where the entire household avoided her. Too, Jensen had never been the favoured stepson; he was unable to conceal his dislike of her, to the point where he corrected anyone who referred to her as his mother. Since his elder brother Joshua's death two years previously, matters between them had deteriorated further; only Jensen was left to wear the mantle of heir to the Ackles fortune, and his stepmother did not approve. She made her opinion clear at every opportunity until he could almost recite it in his sleep.

Jensen's largest fault, in his stepmother's mind (one of many on a list she recounted to him often) was the fact that he was four-and-twenty and still unmarried. She wanted him safely wed and breeding grandchildren for her to mould into her own creatures. Jensen had spent the years since Joshua's death being thrust into the company of dozens of marriageable ladies, all of them hand picked by Lady Ackles, none of whom moved him in the slightest. Jensen had managed to evade the altar each time by means both fair and foul, much to his stepmother's frustration.

Their particular game of cat-and-mouse had endured until the day of Sir Alan's demise. Immediately after the reading of his will, Jensen had known his days of freedom were numbered. Sir Alan's wishes had been very clear: Jensen must marry before his twenty-fifth birthday, or the entire estate would be entailed to his cousin Christian Kane, a foul-mouthed horse wrangler who lived on a break-even ranch raising Quarter horses in Oklahoma. The Kanes were a minor branch on the family tree, cousins on his mother’s side who were rarely spoken of in polite company. Jensen rather liked Christian, as it happened; but he was careful not to say so in his stepmother’s hearing.

Jensen spent much time wondering what his father had been thinking—or drinking, or smoking—when he prepared his final will and testament. It was uncharacteristic of him to make such whimsical decisions regarding his business; and yet, the thing was done. The solicitors had declared the will valid. Jensen must marry within the year, or face losing the entire Ackles fortune.

Such a thing was unacceptable to his stepmother's mind; thus, Jensen had come to London. Lady Ackles had sent him here for the Season with a generous allowance and a thinly-veiled order not to come back without a wife.

"Someone suitable, mind," she'd told him on the day of his departure. "Don't think you'll get away with proposing to the first girl you meet. Whoever you choose, I shall have her thoroughly investigated. If I don't approve, I'll have the marriage annulled, and you shan't get a second chance."

Jensen supposed he should be grateful she hadn't come along for the journey. Thankfully, she was unsuited to sea travel; a small blessing, but Jensen would take what he could get. He had come as ordered, but with no intention of bowing to his stepmother's wishes.

While he had no particular desire to marry, he did not oppose the idea in general. It was his duty as the only son, Joshua having died without issue. He _did_ object, in every possible way, to the idea that his wife should be of his stepmother's choosing.

Jensen's idea of a suitable wife did not match that of Lady Ackles, to say the least. If he must marry, Jensen wanted someone as un-missish as possible. He had no patience for airs and vapours or any sort of helpless delicacy, such as the gently bred ladies of the _ton_ were wont to affect. Unfortunately, society at large seemed to agree with her Ladyship's point of view on the subject. He had not met one woman in ten who did not carry smelling salts in her reticule in case of an impending swoon.

His expectations of finding a wife whom would both please him and not displease his stepmother were low. Yet here he was, and he had a good deal of faith in his ability to charm any woman in the world. If such a woman existed, Jensen would find her. The alternative was unthinkable.

"You're seeking a wife, Jensen?" Jamie perked up. "I know many of the young ladies coming out this Season. I would be very pleased to introduce you to my particular friends, if you'd like."

"I beg you, do not taunt me, dearest," Jensen pleaded, hand on his heart. "You know I have been pining for you ever since you married this great oaf. Every other woman pales in comparison to your glory."

"How on earth do you make so many conquests with such cheap talk?" Welling asked, then held up his hand when Jensen grinned wickedly. "Never mind. Forget I asked. I think I'd rather not know."

Their interest sufficiently placated, the conversation moved on to other subjects. Jensen sat back and let the familiarity of his friends' presence settle into his bones. He hadn't been to London since his last daring escape from dreaded matrimony three years ago (involving an eleventh hour dash to New York the night before the wedding, and a claim of temporary insanity after the lass was safely betrothed elsewhere), and he'd missed it. It was a city of majesty and history and progress, awhirl with activity in the wake of the Great Exhibition; a city where anything and everything was possible. Perhaps he would find the perfect helpmeet hidden in its midst, a woman to cherish for her own sake, not a duty to endure for the sake of his freedom.

Perhaps his horse would grow wings and fly him to the moon.

No; only a fool expected perfect solutions to his problems to appear out of nowhere. Jensen was not a fool, despite his stepmother's exhortations to the contrary. The best he could hope for was a wealthy wife who would not trouble him; to look for anything more was folly. It was by no means an ideal solution, but it would be enough. And there would always be other avenues in which to find pleasure, should it elude him in the marriage bed.

At the thought of such pleasant dalliances, Jensen's mind returned to the delectable footman he'd seen outside. An idea came to him, perfect in its simplicity.

"—I told her she simply _couldn't_ appear in public looking so obviously, well, _delicate_ , but the silly girl wouldn't listen," Jamie was saying. "So there she was, stuffed into her best corset and passing herself off as perfectly well when everybody knew she'd begun her lying-in, and she couldn't understand why fans were fluttering in all directions as she passed." She uttered a 'tsk' sound and shook her head. "It'll be weeks before she lives it down, poor thing. Of course I'm doing what I can to help, but I fear it's a lost cause."

"Don't fret about it, sweeting," Welling said, and patted her hand. "Someone else will do something scandalous next week and it will all be forgotten."

"I'll volunteer, shall I?" Jensen asked, arching a brow. "I haven't done anything scandalous all day. I'm positively bursting with ne'er-do-well intent."

"Oh, go on with you," Jamie said. "I'll wager you're not half as wicked as you make yourself out."

"I wouldn't bank on that, pet." Jensen reached over and squeezed her knee, making her yelp and slap at his hand. Grinning, he sat upright and stretched as politely as he could. "My apologies for the indelicacy, but I'm itching for a bath. Might I borrow one of your footmen to be my valet?"

"Oh, my dear, why didn't you say something sooner? And here I've been babbling on ..." Jamie pulled the bell-cord next to the sofa. "I can't offer Murray's services, I'm afraid; I caught him last month drinking Tom's whisky and purloining his socks, so I turned him off. His replacement is a likely enough fellow—one of your uncouth Texans with an impossible name, but he has a civil tongue. I'll have him sent up to your room."

"You're a treasure." Jensen refused to look in Welling's direction.

A moment later a maid appeared at the door, bobbing a curtsey.

"Clear away the tea things, Jessica, and ask Weatherly to send the new footman up to the Blue Room. He's to valet for Mr Ackles during his stay."

"Yes ma'am," answered the girl, shooting a curious glance in Jensen's direction.

Jensen noticed, of course. She was a pretty thing. Ordinarily, he'd respond with a wink and a smile that promised more; she was lovely, with a smooth dark complexion, and he knew by her blush he could have her. But the thought of the tall handsome footman sluicing him with water, shaving him, washing his back—that was too delicious a proposition to turn down.

"Shall I have someone show you to your room?" Jamie asked him.

"No need. I remember the way." Jensen sketched a gallant bow and flashed his most charming grin. "Until dinner, dear hosts."

"Jensen," Jamie called out as he reached the doorway. He turned back, tilting his head in query. She smiled, warmth evident in her expression. "We're glad you're here."

"As am I," he replied, returning her smile. Then he went upstairs to await his new valet, anticipation making his blood sing.

* * *

Jensen was standing at the window overlooking the street when there was a quiet tap on the door to his rooms.

"Come," he said, turning around.

The door opened, the space beyond filled by wide shoulders and a tall frame. Jensen tamped down a surge of lust—it wouldn't do to get ahead of himself—and motioned the fellow inside. Once the door was closed, the object of his attention stood perfectly still, eyes straight ahead and hands behind his back as though he were a soldier awaiting orders.

"I assume you know what your duties are?" Jensen asked. The fellow nodded, saying nothing, and Jensen raised an eyebrow. "Silence isn't one of them. I require a valet, not an automaton. What's your name?"

That earned him a startled glance from sea-green eyes before the lad resumed his poker face.

"Most people call me Irish, sir," he said in a neutral voice, devoid of any accent.

"You don't look—or sound—terribly Irish to me," Jensen said, looking him over from head to foot, not hiding his appreciation. "You're too tall, for a start. Texan, aren't you? Though with some foreign blood, I'll wager."

Another glance, edged with curiosity, before his servant's training pulled him back into line.

"It's a nickname, sir," came the reply. "On account of my name being mostly too hard for anyone to pronounce. Or remember."

There was something there, a hint of affront that Jensen recognised. Pride in one's name wasn't something one saw often in the lower classes, but he had the feeling this fellow was different.

He waited, but the lad didn't say anything else, resuming his impression of a garden statue. Jensen sighed.

"Answer the question, lad," he said impatiently. "What. Is. Your. Name? Your real name, if you please. What others call you is no concern of mine."

"You want—I mean, yes, sir," the fellow stammered, and Jensen was beginning to have second thoughts about this one, gorgeous or not; just how slow _was_ he? But then the fellow met his gaze and smiled that sweet smile, and Jensen was caught by it anew, staring openly at the way it trebled his beauty. Then that soft voice said something unpronounceable, and Jensen shook his head in bafflement.

"I beg your pardon?" he said blankly.

"Padalecki, sir." The footman's smile widened a fraction. "Shortened to 'Paddy' for convenience, and thus to 'Irish', though I can't follow the logic behind that myself."

"It's a British thing," Jensen said absently, still staring. Then he blinked and narrowed his eyes. "You articulate rather better than the average footman, and you hide your accent better than I do. Where did you go to school?"

"I was schooled at home, sir." Padalecki's chin went up a notch. "My parents were teachers."

Jensen noted the phrasing, but chose not to comment. Instead, he considered the fellow over the rims of his spectacles.

"Can you handle a razor?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mend clothes?"

"Decently enough, sir."

"Take direction without fuss?"

Another smile, fleeting this time. "Mostly, sir."

"Ha." Jensen grinned back. "We'll see about that. All right; I suppose you'll do." He leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets, and hoped he presented a picture of mild interest. "One more question: how many men have had your pretty arse?"

Padalecki paused, staring directly at him. He seemed taller all of a sudden, and his entire body radiated formidable coldness despite the red flush on his cheeks. Jensen noted the change with some dismay; someone had damaged this young man, and badly.

"None of your business," Padalecki replied, in a tone that reeked of insolence. "Sir."

He looked as though he expected Jensen to leap upon him and wrestle him to the floor at any moment. While the idea held some appeal, Jensen preferred his bed partners to be equally involved in the endeavour. He had no taste for coercion, and even less for force.

Charm, however, was one of his favourite weapons, and he used it without restraint.

"Excellent." Jensen smiled slowly, remaining quite still but holding the fellow's gaze. "I'll be your first, then."

"So you say, sir," Padalecki replied coolly. "You won't be the first to try, or the first to fail either. I've no qualms about defending myself; I'll make that clear right now."

"Please." Jensen flicked his hand. "There's no need for that sort of talk. I'm hardly going to hog-tie you to the bed—though the image is a pretty one. No, I have something much more enjoyable in mind. We're going to play a game, you and I; the best part is, nobody loses."

He pushed off the wall and walked into the bedroom, ignoring the way Padalecki's fists clenched as he passed. "For now, however—draw me a bath and get my shaving things ready," he called over his shoulder. "Let's see how well you do."

He stayed out of sight in the bedroom, listening hard. There was silence in the outer room; then Padalecki muttered something under his breath, and a moment later Jensen heard him moving around in the bathroom. Jensen exhaled, not quite a sigh, thinking furiously as he began to undress.

Padalecki was obviously used to people trying to take what they wanted from him. Perhaps someone had even succeeded, though not recently, Jensen would wager. But something had almost certainly happened to make him so averse to the idea of being bedded.

Jensen wondered what Padalecki would do were _he_ tempted to do the taking instead.

"Let's find out," he murmured, and grinned.

He wasn't usually one for rescuing lost puppies, but in Padalecki's case he would make an exception. This was going to be somewhat more than a pleasant dalliance; Jensen would have that lad between his sheets, or perish in the trying.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair, Jensen and the Wellings dining _en famille_. Jensen regaled Jamie with stories of his sister's children and ignored Padalecki when he appeared at table, treating him as he did every other servant. He could feel the footman's eyes on him at intervals, measuring him, trying to figure him out. Every time it happened, Jensen fought the urge to smile. The game was well begun, and he was already winning.

Jensen ran a hand over his jaw, enjoying the touch of smooth skin. Padalecki was a dab hand with a razor; he'd shaved Jensen quickly and competently, with a deft touch and no hesitation. Jensen appreciated his talent even as he wondered what else he could do with those hands. It hadn't been easy keeping his own hands to himself during his bath, but the look of appraisal on Padalecki's face when he'd stepped out, naked and dripping, had been worth it. It was a small win, but a significant one; Padalecki had looked away almost instantly, but not quickly enough, and he knew Jensen had seen him looking.

"Shall we dispense with the port for tonight, Jensen, seeing as it's just we three?" Welling suggested as the final course was cleared away.

Jensen acquiesced, and Jamie ordered coffee to be brought into the drawing room. Padalecki caught Jensen's eye as they rose to leave the table; Jensen detected confusion in his glance before the footman looked away. Satisfied for the moment, Jensen followed his hosts into the drawing room.

"Now then, Jensen," Jamie began when they were all seated, cups in hand. "Exactly what sort of wife do you want?"

Jensen choked on a sip of coffee. "I beg your pardon?" he spluttered, while Welling stifled a laugh, coughing into his hand.

"Come now," Jamie said impatiently. "There's no point in dancing around the subject, is there?" She pointed her spoon at him. "We all know you're here to find a wife, and the sooner we get you one the better. Once that's out of the way, we can all relax and enjoy the rest of your visit. I can help; just tell me what your requirements are and I'll do the rest."

"Darling, you know you're the only woman for me," Jensen said mournfully. "I've tried and tried to console myself with others, but it's no use. Unless you've a twin hidden away somewhere, I fear I must spend my days pining and wasting away for love of you."

"Rubbish," Jamie said briskly. "The day you pine for anyone is the day I eat my best hat, and the matching gloves for dessert. Do stop messing about. We must move quickly, or all the good ones will be taken quicker than you can blink."

"But I ..." Jensen started.

"But nothing," Jamie overrode him. "We'll pay some calls tomorrow, and we can have a soirée in a week or so to get you introduced, but you must help me narrow down the selection so we don't waste time on unsuitable girls. A simple description will do to start with: blonde, brunette or redhead? Tall, short, waiflike, Rubenesque? Quiet and shy, or quick and direct? Speak up, love, we don't have all night."

Jamie was looking at him expectantly; Welling hid a grin behind his coffee cup, quite obviously not trying to help. Jensen put down his cup and took a breath. Jamie was right—this was why he was here, after all. He just wished it didn't feel so _clinical_.

"Brunette," he said at last, ignoring Welling's raised eyebrow. "But not too dark. Tall, quiet but not shy, and for God's sake not a giggler. Someone whose brains weren't drummed out of her in the schoolroom."

"Excellent." Jamie nodded and smiled at him as if he'd passed a test. "I have several candidates in mind already. Leave it to me, dearest, and I'll have you married off within the year."

"Lovely," Jensen said weakly, and wished for a drink. Or a noose.

Some domestic commotion required Jamie's intervention shortly thereafter; she disappeared to the kitchen, and Jensen endured the weight of Welling's meaningful stare for almost a minute before he snapped.

"What?"

"For as long as I've known you, you've always fancied blondes," Welling said. He was sprawled in a chair, looking thoughtful. "Tiny, pretty blondes without a thought in their heads who babble at the drop of a hat."

"And?" Jensen shifted, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Just because I like to dally with them doesn't mean I want to marry one."

"Hm." Welling pursed his lips for a moment. "I'm just wondering when your preferences changed, that's all."

 _About four hours ago, when God's gift to male beauty started hefting my luggage about._ "Enjoy the mystery."

"Tsk. So testy, dear boy. Must be all the travelling." Welling grinned. "Oh, that reminds me: Rosenbaum sent a note, asking you to dinner tomorrow. I thought you'd like that, so I said yes. Is that all right?"

"Of course. I haven't seen Rosie in years." Jensen raised an eyebrow. "Are you two still—?"

"Still," Welling confirmed, with a nervous look at the doorway.

"And Jamie still doesn't know."

"No. I'd rather keep it that way, if you don't mind. She wouldn't understand."

Welling shifted uncomfortably, a faint flush on his cheeks. Jensen felt sympathy for him, even as he was grateful not to be in the same position. He had enough trouble envisaging love for one person; being unable to choose between two must be nigh-on intolerable.

"She won't hear it from me, I promise you." Jensen stood up. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed to contemplate my fate in your wife's hands. Say good night for me, will you?"

"Sleep well," Welling replied blandly. "I'll say a prayer for your virtue."

Jensen made a rude gesture and went upstairs with Welling's laughter ringing in his ears.

Padalecki wasn't in his room, but Jensen had expected that; he would still have some household duties, even while acting as valet. What Jensen hadn't expected was to see his things unpacked and neatly put away, nothing out of place. His blue silk pyjamas were laid out on the bed, the covers of which were turned down invitingly. A heavy crystal glass sat on the nightstand, with an inch of what looked like scotch poured over ice.

Jensen approached the bed and looked at the glass. The ice was fresh. He ran a hand over the bed and found it warm; someone had put heating pans between the sheets.

Any valet worth his salt would do the same. Jensen reminded himself of that as he stripped out of his evening clothes and sprawled comfortably in bed, glass in hand. Padalecki was well-trained, that was all. He wasn't going to read anything into it.

It was sour mash, not scotch. Smoky and familiar, lulling him into relaxation with every swallow.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face and the taste of home on his lips.

* * *

Bright sunlight stabbed him in the face, destroying the last vestiges of a dream. Jensen rolled away from it and groaned, burying his face in a pillow. It wasn't daylight yet. It couldn't be. Daylight meant he had to go wife-hunting, and Jensen wasn't ready. Therefore, the daylight was a cruel and evil illusion sent by the devil and he wanted no part of it.

"Good morning, sir. Will you go down for breakfast, or should I have a tray sent up?"

Jensen groaned louder, ignoring the way his morning erection twitched at the sound of Padalecki's voice.

"A tray it is." Jensen heard a trace of amusement in his tone. "Would you prefer tea or coffee, sir?"

The thought of caffeine got his eyes open despite himself. Jensen twisted around to gaze blearily at Padalecki's tall form.

"Coffee?" he rasped hopefully, and thought he saw Padalecki's mouth twitch at the corners.

"I'll be back shortly, sir," he said, and Jensen fell back into his pillows with a grateful sigh.

He was three-quarters asleep again by the time Padalecki returned with the promised tray, the smell of coffee preceding him. Jensen opened his eyes and dragged himself up to sit against the headboard, yawning and scratching his hands through his hair. Padalecki set the tray across Jensen's lap and poured the coffee as Jensen fumbled his spectacles on.

" _Coffee_ ," Jensen sighed after he'd taken his first sip. "Good Lord, that's amazing." He took another swallow of the strong black brew and felt the world slowly begin to make sense.

There was a note on the tray; it was from Jamie, requesting he join her downstairs in an hour to begin paying calls on the eligible ladies in Town. Jensen grimaced and set it aside, not wanting to think about that until he had to—and definitely not while Padalecki was in the room.

Padalecki was standing in silence, hands behind his back in what Jensen already thought of as his 'at-ease' stance. There was something different about the fellow; Jensen frowned and stared at him while he drank his coffee, tilting his head in concentration.

"Sir?"

"You're looking at me," Jensen realised. "You're _watching_ me."

He smiled in delight as Padalecki jerked his eyes away and stood ramrod-straight, that pretty flush staining his cheeks once more. Jensen removed the cover from his plate and picked up a fork, pointing it at him.

"Oh, no you don't. It's too late for that now, my sweet," he chided. "The game is up. I've caught you out, and now you have to pay the price."

Padalecki's gaze snapped back to him, clearly expecting Jensen to leap out of bed and molest him where he stood. Jensen beat down his impulse to do just that and smiled innocently, spearing a sausage.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, sir." Padalecki was watching him again, cautious but not backing down.

"I know you don't. But don't worry, it will all become clear in time. For the time being, you only need to be aware of this: sometimes, when you get caught up in watching something, it becomes so alluring that you just ... can't ... stop."

Jensen lifted the sausage to his mouth and licked it thoroughly, slicking his lips, and then slid its whole length slowly into his mouth. He closed his eyes and hummed, hearing a soft intake of breath as he let the meat slide back out again. He repeated the motion several times, letting the soft sounds of his suckling speak for his enjoyment, thankful that his erection was safely hidden beneath the tray. When he opened his eyes, he saw Padalecki leaning forward ever so slightly, gaze fixed on Jensen's mouth. His lips were parted, a hint of tongue glistening within.

"This," Jensen said breathily, "is _delicious_. I love sausages." He licked around the end of the meat and bit deep, grinning as he chewed. "And look—I've got three of them. How marvellous." He beamed at Padalecki, whose face was beet red. "Do you like sausages, Padalecki?"

He ate with precise, catlike bites as he watched the footman struggle to reply. A thought occurred to him as he did so, causing him to lose a great deal of his enjoyment in the scene. It was unfair of him to be playing like this; Padalecki would probably like to wish him directly to hell, but was holding back for fear of losing his position. The idea sobered him up in a hurry.

"Wait," he said as Padalecki opened his mouth to speak. "Before you speak, I want to make one thing perfectly clear."

"Sir?" Padalecki's voice was strained, and he wouldn't meet Jensen's gaze. Those talented hands were making fists again, tendons stiff with tension.

"Whatever goes on between you and I has no bearing on anything else," Jensen said. "You may tell me to go to the devil if you like, and I'll probably pout like a little child if you do, but I will not have you sacked for it. Your employment does not depend upon what you do in this room, outside your duties as valet. Do you understand?"

He paused, half-expecting Padalecki to call a halt to the game then and there. The moment stretched out; when his answer came, it was more than he'd hoped for.

"I ... think so, sir." Soft voice, softer than Jensen had yet heard from him, and a hesitant glance that Jensen caught and held.

"I want no confusion about this." Jensen pointed at each of them in turn. " _I_ am going to do my level best to get you in this bed with me, with all that such an action implies, and _you_ are free to consent or run screaming from the room or anything in between. You needn't fear for your post, only your virtue. All right?"

"I take your meaning, sir," Padalecki said slowly, though a fresh wave of scarlet washed over his skin. He looked directly at Jensen, visibly steeling himself. "In that case—may I ask you something?"

"Ask away." Jensen waved his fork, then speared another sausage with it.

"Why me?"

Jensen stared at him, fork poised in mid-air. "Why you what?"

"What is it about me that—that makes you think I ..." Padalecki's voice trailed off and he swallowed, ducking his head. "That I might want ... _that_?"

"You say ' _that_ ' as if it were shameful," Jensen said equably, though inside he was snarling at whoever put the idea in the fellow's head. "There's nothing wrong with it, you know. Men find other men attractive all the time, just as they do women. You've been attracted to a pretty girl before, haven't you?"

"Yes." Wary again, watching Jensen like a hawk.

"Well then." Jensen nodded at him. "You know what attraction feels like. This is no different. You're quite ridiculously beautiful, and I'm already imagining all the things I want to do with you. I'm just not hiding it."

"Most people do," Padalecki countered.

Jensen smiled wickedly at him. "I'm not most people."

That won him a smile, short-lived but definitely there. "I'm beginning to realise that," said Padalecki wryly, and Jensen laughed outright.

"Excellent. Don't forget it, and we'll get along fine." He poured himself another cup of coffee. "Now then; after I'm done with this superb breakfast, I must dress. I am to present myself to various young ladies of society today, and hopefully find one of them toothsome enough to marry."

Jensen tried to keep his tone nonchalant, but some of his reluctance must have escaped.

"Marry, sir?"

Padalecki's obvious confusion made Jensen smile, appreciating the irony.

"Don't misunderstand," he said, pushing his eggs about on the plate. "The one thing has nothing to do with the other. I marry because I must, not because I particularly want to. My father is dead; my stepmother controls my fortune, and will do so until I prove myself capable of producing an heir to her satisfaction. Thus, my presence here, to acquire a wife to assist in said production. It's all extremely tiresome and there are many things I'd much rather be doing, but it cannot be helped. I am the only living son, and I must discharge my responsibilities."

He felt his mouth twist as he parroted his stepmother's words, unsure why he was speaking at all. It wasn't as though Padalecki could possibly care about his troubles. But the words were said, and he felt better for it. At least one person knew his true feelings on the matter.

"It sounds rather unfair, sir, if you don't mind my saying so."

"It is unfair," Jensen agreed. "It will be even more unfair to my wife, whoever she is. She will be as trapped as I, and my—proclivities—will not make life any easier for her. But this is the price we must apparently pay for material wealth and comfort." He put down his fork with a sigh. "Sometimes I find myself wondering if it's worth it."

"If you'd ever gone hungry, sir, you wouldn't say that," Padalecki said. Jensen looked up to find the footman's face shuttered, lips pressed together in a thin line. He sensed there were more words hidden behind that expressive mouth.

"Perhaps not," Jensen said. "What would you do then, were you in my place?"

Padalecki was silent while he thought it over. Jensen watched him, more interested than he wanted to admit in what the answer would be.

"Whatever I had to," Padalecki said at last. "Both to keep what I had, and to live with it after."

"A good answer." Jensen winked. "Especially the second part. Would you care to expand on that?"

"I believe you can figure it out for yourself, sir."

"I believe I shall." Jensen let his mouth curl in a teasing smile. "Now, unless you want to get out of that pesky—but extremely flattering—livery and join me here for a romp, be a darling and run a bath, won't you? And then find me something to wear that will set the ladies' hearts a-flutter. If I must put myself on display, I want to do it properly."

"Yes, sir."

Padalecki left the room; Jensen slumped back, thinking on what he'd learned. Padalecki appeared to be a pragmatic soul, a quality Jensen appreciated. He was oddly easy to talk to—unexpected, but one took such gifts where they appeared. The most astonishing (and worrying) thing, however, was Padalecki's reaction to Jensen's overtures. Someone—or a lot of someones—had convinced the lad he was unnatural, that he garnered attention from men because something was _wrong_ with him. Jensen intended to fix that, starting today.

Right after he had some more of those unbelievable sausages. He needed to keep his strength up, after all. He had a feeling he would need it.

* * *

After a regrettably chaste bath peppered with sidelong glances (Padalecki's) and come-hither smiles (his), Jensen ventured downstairs. Padalecki had an excellent eye for fashion; the dove-grey morning suit he'd laid out on Jensen's bed, set off by an exquisite cravat in ocean green lace, tied in the American style, made Jamie stop and stare when she saw him.

"Oh, no," she said, fingering the fine cloth of his coat. "Jensen, this won't do at all. You can't possibly leave the house looking like this. You'll cause broken hearts and uncrossed legs everywhere you go." She looked him over again, then sighed and shook her head. "You'll have to wear something else. Do you have any brown tweed? It's terribly unfashionable just now."

"Good morning to you too, Jamie my love," Jensen said dryly. "I slept wonderfully, thank you for asking."

She waved a hand. "It's obvious you slept well. You look amazing. But that's the problem, don't you see? If I take you out as you are, women will be throwing themselves at you in the street. You'll find yourself compromised and engaged to entirely the wrong person before we reach the corner."

Jensen raised an eyebrow. "I think I can handle it," he said. "I've been chased by a girl or two in my time, you know."

"Have you ever found yourself locked in a water closet with a naked debutante you met five minutes previous?" Jamie asked bluntly.

"Well, as it happens ..." Jensen began with a grin. Jamie blinked at him, eyes wide.

"I take it back," she said. "You'll be fine. Forget I mentioned it."

"I would have anyway," Jensen replied. "I'm far too pretty to have a working brain. At least, that's what all those scheming mothers think."

"They do have a point," Jamie said. "It's not really fair of you to be handsome _and_ clever, you know."

"I do know. It's a burden." Jensen sighed. "But we must make do with the gifts God gives us, mustn't we?"

Jamie let out a girlish-sounding giggle, then looked horrified. "Stop that," she admonished when he grinned at her. "I'm a married woman. Save your flirting for the virgin sacrifices of society, you evil creature."

"Just practicing," Jensen said innocently. "Speaking of sacrifices—shall we go, before my martyr complex packs it in altogether?"

He offered her his arm, and Jamie took it with a look that clearly said he'd better behave himself. Jensen schooled his features into something approaching well-mannered, restrained politeness and led her to the door.

His façade lasted until they were outside; then Jensen saw the Wellings' carriage at the foot of the stairs, and Padalecki standing by the open door waiting to hand them into it. His eyes flicked to Jensen for a fraction of a second only, but it was enough to make Jensen's heart pound and his skin flush with sudden heat.

He helped Jamie down the stairs automatically, Padalecki assisting her inside the carriage. Then it was his turn, and when he placed his hand in Padalecki's palm, Jensen could swear he felt the touch burn even through his kidskin gloves. He allowed himself a quick squeeze before he let go, unable to resist. Padalecki's mouth quirked as he shut the carriage door, and Jensen felt his heart skip. Their eyes met once more, something warm hovering in the depths of Padalecki's gaze, but it was gone so fast Jensen wasn't sure it had been there at all. Then Padalecki stepped back, and the moment was lost as the carriage jolted into motion.

"First on the list: Miss Joanna Krupa," Jamie said when the carriage drew to a stop in Berkeley Square. "She's blonde, but she's quite suitable despite that. This is her first Season; she's eighteen, of good lineage, and father's willing to settle ten thousand pounds upon the lucky fellow who meets his approval."

"Yes, but does she have good teeth?" Jensen asked, straight-faced. Jamie slapped him with her fan.

"Behave yourself," she ordered. "Or I'll buy vouchers for Almack's and leave you there undefended."

Jensen shuddered. The very thought of being abandoned in that place filled him with honest terror. Dozens of dewy-eyed, heaving-breasted, sweet young things with low-cut gowns and Machiavellian mothers, and himself trapped in the midst of it with nothing but warm lemonade and wilting cucumber sandwiches to sustain him? He'd never make it out alive.

"I'll be good," he promised. Jamie looked at him narrowly for a moment, then nodded and dragged him up the stairs of a well-kept townhouse with a blue door.

"Mrs Welling and Mr Ackles, to see Miss Krupa," she told the butler when the door opened.

"May I have your card, madam?"

She handed it to him, and the butler inspected it as though it might be carrying plague. Jensen wondered where they learned to do that. Every butler he'd ever met had the same air of superiority about him, more so even than some members of the nobility. He decided it must be something learned in butler school.

The butler grudgingly allowed them into the foyer to wait while he went to see if their hostess was available. Jensen cooled his heels near the door, already bored. He wondered what Padalecki was doing right now. Thinking back to that last look they shared through the carriage window, he became more certain that the warmth he'd seen in Padalecki's eyes hadn't been his imagination. An answering warmth spread through the pit of his stomach, and Jensen felt his mouth curl in a secret smile.

"Miss Krupa would be pleased if you would join her in the drawing room," the butler announced, appearing silently in front of them.

Jensen pushed away from the wall and followed Jamie through the second room off to the right. He took a deep breath and pushed thoughts of Padalecki away, trying to focus on the task at hand.

"Miss Krupa," Jamie said, "so lovely to see you again. May I present my husband's particular friend, Mr Ackles?"

Jensen stepped forward to bow over the pretty blonde woman's hand. "Delighted, Miss Krupa."

"Likewise," she answered, looking at him boldly. Jensen smiled, giving nothing away, and let the subtle thrust-and-parry of conversation begin.

* * *

By four o'clock Jensen was ready to beg for relief. They were paying their seventh call of the day, and while Miss Graham was a perfectly lovely lady (if a little older than expected), all Jensen wanted to do was escape her company and go somewhere he didn't feel like a side of beef on display. His tie felt like a noose about his neck, and if he were faced with one more elegantly-poured cup of Darjeeling he felt sure he would burst.

Jamie slanted a look at him as they left the Graham house, having secured an invitation to dinner the following week.

"You're looking a little peaked," she observed.

"You're being far too polite," Jensen replied. "I'm _exhausted_. Please tell me it's over. I can't be charming anymore."

Jamie laughed at him as he handed her into the carriage and collapsed on the seat opposite her.

"You're going to have to do better than this if you hope to survive the Season," she said. "This is only the very barest tip of the iceberg. We've dinners and garden parties and soirées and balls and nights at the theatre to get through yet."

Jensen groaned and covered his face with both hands. "Kill me now," he said through his fingers. "I can't face it. I'm going to join a monastery instead."

"Don't be such a baby." Jamie whacked him on the leg. "You're a grown man, and it's only a few social engagements. It won't hurt you to show up and be pleasant for a while."

"A few," Jensen repeated, staring at her in dismay. "Three dinners, five teas, two balls, a night in the Hartleys' private box watching some godawful Russian production, and I don't know how many afternoon rides in the park, all carefully staged by conspiring parents so that everyone can get an excellent view of the upstart American squiring their daughters around." He threw his hands in the air. "I feel like a horse being put through its paces in the middle of the marketplace."

"So does every single one of those ladies we met today, and a lot more besides," Jamie snapped. "And they have little or no say in the matter, whereas you may choose any of them or none at all, and nobody will think less of you. Those girls don't have that luxury. Most of them are under extreme pressure to capture a husband at any cost, even if it means their maidenheads."

Jensen opened his mouth to speak, but Jamie cut him off. "Do you know how expensive it is to give a young woman a proper Season?" she demanded. "The wardrobe alone costs hundreds of pounds—a different dress for every occasion, and woe betide the poor girl who's seen in the same dress twice. Then there's the dinners, the dances, the cost of theatre tickets—and worse than that, there's the need to be always perfect, all the time, the better to catch the eye of a man just like yourself. The pressure is always there, because for a lot of these girls this is their only chance."

She took a deep breath. "It may not seem like it to you, but marriage is a very serious business in this city. Remember that next time you feel like you're on show, because you _are_ —but the choices are all yours. Whoever you choose will escape the same fear they all have: that they'll never marry, and will end up as spinsters, a burden on their family and an embarrassment to all. It's a horrible future to look forward to."

Jensen stared at her in silence for a while, surprised at the passion he heard in her voice. Jamie looked somewhat abashed at her outburst, dropping her gaze.

"My apologies," she said formally. "I didn't mean to go on like that."

"Don't apologise," Jensen said, keeping his voice gentle. "You're right. It must be awful to live with that kind of fear all the time."

"Well." Jamie adjusted her skirts, aimlessly smoothing the material. "You have something of an idea, given your stepmother's insistence on your marriage."

"Yes, but I can always take to train-robbing to survive." Jamie gave him a small smile, and Jensen grinned wryly in return. "Now, if you'd be so gracious, please accept my apologies for being an insensitive fool just now, and also accept my thanks for setting me aright in the matter. And be warned, if you don't forgive me, I'll be forced to fall pathetically to my knees at regular intervals to repeat my plea, and that could become rather embarrassing for you. Also, it'll mean death for my wardrobe, and then I'll never find a wife, and you don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

Jamie's smile widened a fraction. "You're incorrigible."

"Completely," Jensen agreed. "But it suits me, don't you think? Now, dear heart, please tell me we're going home. I must be at my sparkling best if I'm to have dinner with the Rosenbaums tonight."

"Oh dear." Jamie looked at him askance, chewing on her lip. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Of course. I haven't seen Michael in over a year, since the last time he came to Dallas." Jensen frowned. "Is there some reason I shouldn't go?"

"Well, no. It's just—" Jamie coughed. "The Rosenbaums are awfully ..."

"Awfully what?" Jensen prompted.

"... Jewish," Jamie said, as though it were a secret. Jensen blinked.

"And?"

"And, some people might find your mixing with them ... objectionable," she said awkwardly.

"By 'some people', I assume you mean the upper crust of the _ton_ ," Jensen guessed dryly. "All those Very Important People with titles and estates and blood so blue they put the sky to shame."

"They're very influential, Jensen," Jamie said, very much in earnest. "They could make life difficult for you if they disapprove."

"Jamie, my love," Jensen said, "the day I allow a bunch of overdressed, overfed, handkerchief-waving aristocrats dictate who I may and may not befriend, I will summon a coach to take me to Bedlam. Michael was one of my best friends in school, and I'm not about to cut him simply because the _ton_ doesn't agree with his dietary practices."

Jamie appeared ready to argue with him, but after a moment she sighed and shook her head.

"I suppose you know what you're doing," she said at last. "Honestly, I don't know what it is about that man that inspires such loyalty. I've always found him rather unpleasant, but you and Tom both behave as though he's the best friend you've ever had."

"He mixes an awfully good scotch-and-soda," Jensen offered, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when Jamie laughed. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss Rosenbaum with Welling's wife. Therein lay a minefield he had no intention of navigating.

They returned to the house a short while later, Jamie having outlined Jensen's social schedule for the next ten days on the way. Jensen thanked her in his prettiest phrases and promised to keep faithfully to each engagement; then he escaped to his room to try and dispel the heavy feeling of doom that hovered about his head. He closed the door behind him and breathed out slowly, relishing the silence.

It hadn't been all bad—Miss Graham would be pleasant company, he thought, if he could prise her away from her mama for more than five minutes; and he'd felt a certain warmth when Miss Krupa met his glance with an appraising stare of her own—but none of them had truly stirred him enough to make him long for more. It was only very early days, as Jamie had said; the Season was barely begun, and there were many more females of beauty and breeding yet to be discovered. But looking around his rooms, thinking of a certain tall form and remembering the jolt he felt from a single glance of green cat-eyes, Jensen knew it would take someone extraordinary to capture his attention away from the enticement right under his nose.

Jensen made use of the bathroom, then stripped down to shirt and trousers and rang for a maid. He sprawled across his bed with a relieved sigh, allowing himself to relax for the first time in hours.

"Sir?" The little brunette maid, Jessica, entered his room silently and stood at the foot of the bed. "Are you all right?"

"Oh! Yes." Jensen sat upright and smiled at her. "I'm absolutely starved, is all. Do you think I could get something to eat? I've had enough tea to sink a battleship, but man cannot live on watercress sandwiches alone."

Jessica stifled a giggle and looked at the floor, then cut a sideways glance at him. "I'll ask Cook for a tray," she said, her eyes lingering on his chest. "Is there ... anything else you might want, sir?"

Jensen cocked his head. The offer was there, as plain as she could make it without overstepping her bounds. All he had to do was take it. Looking at her, small and sleek and undeniably pretty, he knew she would be exactly like the dozens of other maids he'd taken to his bed; soft and sweet and entirely giving, and for a while he'd be perfectly satisfied. Padalecki was by no means a sure thing, and it had been some days since he'd bedded anyone. Jensen ought to take solace where he could.

"No, that's all," he heard himself say, and watched her face fall before she mastered herself.

"I'll have a tray sent up directly, sir," she said. "There's cold ham pie left over from lunch, and Cook's special bread pudding."

She left as silently as she'd entered. Jensen fell back across the bed when the door closed, groaning at the ceiling.

"All this nobility is going to kill you, Ackles," he said aloud. "And what will you have to show for it, hm?"

Padalecki's face appeared in his mind, smiling free and unrestrained, and Jensen drew in a sharp breath as want coursed through him.

Well, all right, there was _that_. If the gods of love looked kindly on his efforts.

A smile curled across Jensen's own face as an idea came to him. Cupid might help out, or he might not; there was no reason why Jensen couldn't tip the odds in his own favour.


	2. Chapter 2

He ventured out on foot after his late luncheon, familiarising himself with the city once more. Serendipity led him to a flower-seller's shop on his return to the house; a quick transaction later, Jensen had the next stage of his plan to conquer Mount Padalecki in place.

He requested Padalecki's assistance in dressing for dinner, engaging him in desultory conversation and limiting himself to heated glances and as much skin as he could reasonably show while changing clothes. His purchase sat hidden in a drawer while Padalecki was in the room; after he left, Jensen placed it squarely on his bed, its meaning clear. Before leaving the house, Jensen gave orders to Weatherly that no-one but Padalecki was to enter his rooms in his absence, then set off for his engagement, eagerness fluttering in his chest.

The Rosenbaum townhouse was well-appointed, situated just off Regent Street. Jensen stepped into the drawing room shortly after seven o'clock, and barely uttered a word in greeting before Rosenbaum swooped down upon him with a cry of delight. Jensen found himself drawn into a bear hug that lifted him almost off the ground. There were perhaps half a dozen people in the room, all of them strangers to him, but Rosenbaum paid them no mind as he squeezed the breath out of Jensen without any care for propriety.

"Jenny, you darling boy, where have you _been_?" Rosenbaum asked accusingly when he let Jensen go. "You've been in Town for a whole day and I haven't seen you once. I almost didn't believe you'd turn up tonight. If you hadn't, I would have cried. _And_ you're late." He nodded seriously to himself and adjusted Jensen's tie, smoothing his lapels with a lingering touch.

"Liar," Jensen said with a grin. "You know exactly where I've been. I hope you've enjoyed your laughter at my expense."

"Oh, you've no idea," Rosenbaum replied, smirking. "The Marriage Mart, Jenny? I could hardly believe it when I heard. But here you are, large as life and twice as gorgeous, and Tommy tells me you've met seven girls already. You certainly aren't wasting time. What, will the sheep forget you if you're away for too long?"

"Cattle," Jensen corrected, though Rosenbaum knew that perfectly well. "It's not that so much as it is I'm afraid Kane and my stepmother will come to blows while I'm gone, and I'm not entirely sure he'd win."

Rosenbaum looked taken aback at Jensen's matter-of-fact tone; then his sudden laughter filled the air, and he threw a companionable arm around Jensen's neck.

"People!" Rosenbaum said grandly, drawing all eyes to himself as other conversations stopped. "This is my friend Mr Ackles, with whom I spent my formative years enclosed in a schoolroom, much to the dismay of our headmaster. The dear boy is visiting from his native Texas to find himself a wife. Have pity, and treat him kindly; I think all that Western riding has done something to his wits." He patted Jensen's backside in a familiar manner, drawing a laugh.

"Careful, Mikey, or I'll end up proposing to _you_ ," Jensen drawled. He fluttered his eyelashes coyly and pursed his lips. Rosenbaum went still for a moment, gazing at him; then he grinned wide and nudged Jensen into a seat on a flowered sofa.

"Drink?" He tilted the brandy snifter in Jensen's direction.

"You read my mind." Jensen settled himself into the cushions and took the glass Rosenbaum offered, sighing as he inhaled the brandy fumes. "I've been dying for a drink since midday."

"What happened at midday?" Rosenbaum asked, sitting beside him.

"Miss LeeAnn Rimes," Jensen said. "And her entire family, from doting grandparents to infant second cousin. All of them gathered together in the drawing room of her parents' house, staring directly at me for the most hellish quarter-hour I have ever suffered. I felt like I was before a firing squad."

"Poor fellow," Rosenbaum said, all mock-sympathy and very real glee. "And just think: you have weeks of this ahead of you. Days and days of it. Why on earth are you putting yourself through all this nonsense anyway?"

"I keep asking myself the same question," Jensen replied. "And then I remember my stepmother and her purse-strings, and the urgent need to marry comes upon me once again."

"Well, it just so happens I may be able to aid you in your time of need," Rosenbaum said. He wiggled his fingers at someone in the crowded drawing-room; a moment later, Jensen's good manners brought him to his feet as a young lady detached herself from a conversation and came to stand before them.

"Jenny, dearest, I have someone I want you to meet." Rosenbaum looked at the girl fondly. "This is Miss McCoy, lately of California. Sandra, my petal, say hello to Mr Ackles."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," said the dark-haired girl in front of him, and Jensen looked down. And down again, because Miss McCoy was _tiny_. And then he smiled because he couldn't _not_ , when faced with such a lovely creature.

"Miss McCoy," he said, taking her gloved hand in his own. "How do you do?"

"As well as can be expected in the midst of this lot," she said, tossing her hair, and Jensen laughed despite himself.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversation. Jensen escorted Miss McCoy ("Sandra, please, or Sandy if you like—I don't go in for all this formality") to dinner, and spent the entire time monopolising her attention, ignoring the other diners at the table. When the ladies left the men to their port, Jensen extracted a promise that she would allow him to sit by her in the drawing room for coffee. She kept to her word, serving him herself, and triumph twisted in Jensen's chest when her fingers brushed against his sleeve as she drew her hand away.

"She has fifteen thousand pounds from her uncle," Rosenbaum whispered in his ear as Jensen made his farewells. "Her parents are dead, she's of age, and she likes you. In conclusion, my friend: if you want her, she's yours."

Jensen wasn't certain of anything, but the situation was decidedly hopeful. Sandy was definitely appealing, he couldn't deny that. Their discourse had been easy and comfortable, ranging from the ups and downs of sea travel to the differences in riding with an English saddle. She was an accomplished rider, and enjoyed a daily turn about the park. Jensen had arranged to call on her tomorrow; he planned to invite her to go riding with him. Only time would tell if they were compatible enough to consider marriage, but the situation was promising. He wished he felt more for her physically; unfortunately, only the mildest of stirrings occurred when she smiled at him or let her skirts brush against his leg. Still, such things were of no consequence in marriage. Few people of his station married for love. Never mind that he had always thought to do so; that had been when he was a younger son, and had the freedom to do as he chose. Now he must marry with his goal in mind, and find his pleasures where he could.

It was late by the time he returned to the Wellings'. Jensen rapped quietly on the door to be let in; when it opened, he found himself staring at Padalecki, sleepy-eyed and irritable and not bothering to hide it.

"Come in then, if you're coming," Padalecki muttered, and Jensen stepped inside.

He felt off-balance all of a sudden, his fledgling plans falling to tatters as he gazed at the man in front of him. The entire evening disappeared from his mind as if it had never been; the only thoughts in his mind centred around himself and Padalecki and his large, soft bed. Padalecki locked the door and drew the heavy bolts, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing; watching him, all Jensen wanted to do was touch, and taste, and feel all that warmth and strength moving against him.

"Sorry for keeping you up," he murmured when Padalecki turned around.

"Part of the job." Padalecki stifled a yawn. "Not my favourite part, though. D'you need anything else tonight, sir?"

A thousand replies occurred to Jensen, all of them guaranteed to have Padalecki fleeing to the depths of the house and ensuring he'd never see that beautiful smile again. He bit his tongue, hard, and managed a neutral smile.

"Not tonight. And not until about mid-morning tomorrow. I believe I'll have a lazy morning in bed." Jensen closed his eyes and rolled his neck, weariness creeping over him. "I've earned it today."

"Yes, sir."

Padalecki's voice sounded ... different. Not as blank as usual. Jensen opened his eyes and caught him looking again; this time, however, Padalecki didn't look away.

"Something on your mind, Padalecki?" Jensen asked softly, letting his voice deepen.

"I—" Padalecki swallowed. "When I went to turn down your bed, I found ... something. I'm not sure if—and then there was ... talk. In the kitchen. About you and Jessie, and how she ... Cook said—"

He took a breath. Jensen tilted his head, waiting, and Padalecki went on. "She said you could've had Jessie anywhere in the house, she's that bold."

"I could have," Jensen agreed. "What of it?"

Padalecki took another deep breath. It sounded very loud in the silence of the house.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't—don't—want her." Jensen shrugged. "She's a lovely girl, but there are a lot of those in the world."

"And you've had most of 'em, from what Cook says, so what's different now?" Padalecki shot back, before he clapped a hand over his mouth. His horrified eyes met Jensen's over his fingers.

"Jealous, are we?" Jensen smiled. "Good."

He moved closer, slowly, letting Padalecki have the option of backing away, gratified when he didn't. Jensen trailed his fingers along the firm jaw, savouring this first touch.

"I met a young lady this evening," he said. "Miss McCoy. She's a tiny thing, very pretty, and not at all a simpering nitwit like most of her counterparts. I believe she's not indifferent to me, either."

Padalecki said nothing; but his jaw clenched under Jensen's hand.

"If all goes well, I shall probably ask for Miss McCoy's hand," Jensen went on. "She has a decent fortune. I'm certain my stepmother will approve of her. It would appear all my problems may be solved in one fell swoop."

Padalecki may as well have been carved in stone, he was so still. Jensen watched his fingers moving over brows and cheeks and nose, palming the side of Padalecki's face for a moment.

"I spent five hours in conversation with the lady," Jensen said thoughtfully. "Five hours of sparkling wit, the discovery of acquaintances and habits in common, accord on almost every subject—in short, a very successful affair." He met Padalecki's gaze, letting the intensity of his desire heat the air between them. "And not a single moment of it compares to how I felt when I saw you again."

"Don't," Padalecki whispered, but still he did not move.

"The flowers on the bed are almond blossoms," Jensen said, daring a touch to the soft, mobile mouth, sliding his hand down to rest on the wide chest, over Padalecki's heart. "They signify hope, and a lover's charm. I'll keep them for you until you're willing to take them."

Padalecki was barely breathing under his hand. Jensen stepped away and walked toward the stairs, willing himself not to look back.

"Wait."

He turned, slowly, heart beating faster despite himself. "Yes?"

"Jessie." Padalecki made an aborted move, then clenched his hand into a fist. "You really don't want her?"

"I really don't," Jensen agreed. "I thought I'd made myself perfectly understood on that point." He took a step in Padalecki's direction. "If you need clarification, however ..."

He waited for Padalecki's refusal; when it didn't come, Jensen thought he must be dreaming. He took another step, and another, until he was moving without thought, following his desire to be as close to Padalecki as possible.

"Now would be the part where you tell me 'no'," he instructed as he drew near, searching Padalecki's face for understanding. "Because if you don't, I'm going to kiss you, and once I start I may not be able to stop."

"The flowers," Padalecki said, and there was wonder in his voice. "They're for me?"

"Yes." Jensen took Padalecki's face between his hands, thumbs stroking over parted lips. "Those, and a lot more besides." He smiled into wide green eyes. "Shall I woo you then, Padalecki? Is that what you want?"

"I want—" Padalecki closed his eyes briefly, his breath a shuddering sigh. He looked Jensen full in the face, unguarded and unsure. "I want time. To—to think. And. But. I'm not—I'm not saying 'no'. I'm saying 'not right now'."

Jensen's heart lurched in his chest. His blood went liquid-hot in his veins, his trousers suddenly tight with the strength of his need. He tried to keep his reaction hidden, not wanting to startle Padalecki—God only knew what the lad had suffered—and felt heat suffuse his cheeks when Padalecki smiled at him.

"That was your cue to kiss me," Padalecki told him. "In case you missed it. Sir."

"Don't be cheeky," Jensen ordered, and brought their mouths together.

It was entirely different from anything he'd ever felt before. Kissing was a favourite pastime of Jensen's; he did it a lot, sometimes for hours at a time, enjoying the slip and slide of lips and tongue, the heat and wet pleasure to be found in the activity. He still remembered his first kiss, when he was ten years old, with the daughter of one of his mother's friends; until now, that had been the most magical moment of his life.

Padalecki's lips were softer than they looked, and they opened easily for him. Jensen took his time, learning the things that made Padalecki sigh or hum or gasp, sucking lightly on his tongue and inviting it to explore his own mouth in turn. They kissed for endless minutes, bodies barely touching, until they ran short of air and had to part.

"Oh my," Jensen panted, resting his forehead on Padalecki's shoulder. "That was ..."

"Yes," Padalecki agreed, sounding dazed. His hands were on Jensen's hips. Jensen wondered how long they'd been like that, and whether Padalecki had noticed. "It was."

"And now I expect you want me to go to bed," Jensen said, pulling away to look at him. " _Alone_."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

Jensen grinned, loving the way Padalecki's gaze followed his movements as he stepped back.

"I'll employ the time-honoured coping mechanism of frustrated men everywhere," he said, and made an obscene gesture with a loosely-curled fist.

Padalecki blinked, clearly startled; then his eyes grew dark and heavy, and Jensen was hard-pressed not to kiss him again.

"You could come and watch, if you'd like," he offered.

"Good night, sir," Padalecki said firmly, ignoring Jensen's put-upon sigh. "I'll see you in the morning."

"You're a hard, cruel man, Padalecki," Jensen accused. "How can you bear to send me away in such a state as this?"

Padalecki's hand snaked out before he could react, dragging him close again. Jensen's breath stuttered in his chest as Padalecki's mouth came down hard, tongue delving deep and stealing every ounce of sense from him. When he eventually broke away, Jensen stumbled against him, unsteady on his feet.

"Sweet Christ in Heaven, Padalecki," Jensen cursed. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Jared." Padalecki mouthed the name into his hair, hands tight on his shoulders. "My name is Jared."

"Jared." Jensen let the name roll over his tongue, tasting it. "It suits you. And it's much easier to pronounce."

"You're the only one who'd know." Jared's voice was soft again. "Nobody else bothers."

"I keep telling you," Jensen said, "I'm not like everybody else."

Jared kissed him again, quick and fierce, then shoved him away. "Go on. Before I do something stupid."

"Like come upstairs with me?"

"Go _away_ , damn you." Pause. "Sir."

"Sleep well, Jared." Jensen grinned. "And if you don't, you know where to find me."

* * *

There was a letter from his stepmother waiting in his bedroom. Jensen ignored it for as long as he possibly could; he had no desire to lose the pleasant humming in his body that Jared's kisses evoked. It would depart all too soon of its own accord, and then who knew when he might next feel such bliss?

Whatever her Ladyship had to say could wait.

Jensen stripped out of his evening clothes, washed in the lukewarm water on his washstand and sprawled naked on the bed. Intense satisfaction spread through him, coupled with anticipation at the thought of Jared lying here, inviting his caresses. One kiss had him ready to plead for more, on his knees if necessary; he was rock-hard and aching, and when he took hold of his cock it was only seconds before he was gasping and arching in completion, imagining Jared's touch instead of his own. It would happen soon, Jensen was certain. Impossible, to imagine Jared being anything other than his equal in needs of the flesh. He was so perfectly responsive, so well-matched to Jensen's own tastes and desires, it was hard to believe the entire encounter hadn't been a fever-dream brought on by too much want.

He stood up, reaching for a washcloth. Lady Ackles' letter caught his eye, perched on the dresser next to Jared's blooms, and with a sigh Jensen gave in. It seemed to weigh more than strictly necessary when he picked it up off the silver tray, creamy pale parchment hiding words of what his stepmother no doubt considered profound import.

Jensen broke the wax seal on the envelope with no little trepidation and began to read.

  
  


Jensen stared at the words, trying to contain his rage. In a few spare lines, his stepmother managed to insult him, offend him, call him an unworthy son and subtly threaten to disinherit him if he chose the wrong sort of wife.

"At least she cannot call me a bastard," he muttered, trying to find humour in the situation.

_Choose wisely_ , she had written, but she meant, _Choose someone I will approve if you wish to keep your fortune_. He knew exactly what Lady Ackles' specifications were in that respect, right down to the last detail, and the idea of it made him shudder. According to his stepmother, a proper wife would be quiet; demure; obedient; a good hostess and housekeeper; a breeder of children. Some sort of physical beauty was preferable, but that did not greatly signify as long as the girl's bloodlines were pure. And wealthy, of course. No penniless aristocratic beauties were to be swept off their feet. An Ackles' wife must be worthy of him financially as well as socially.

He couldn't think of anything he wanted less.

Jensen stroked the letter for a moment, deep in thought; then he tore it, slowly and deliberately, into a dozen pieces and fed them to the coals in the fireplace.

"Like _hell_ ," he said to the glowing embers, hands clenched into tight fists. "I will be damned first."

Jared's image filled his mind, bright eyes and slow smile, every line of his body inviting Jensen's touch. Jensen's fingers loosened; he felt his cock stirring again, automatically seeking friction, and his stepmother's words melted away. He had weeks yet to think about such things. For now, all he wanted to do was bask in the knowledge that Jared wanted him, wrap the thought around him and let it follow him into sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough to think about everything else.

* * *

The following weeks were an exercise in glorious frustration, as Jensen and Jared played a subtle game of cat-and-mouse. Jensen found himself wondering more than once who was the hunter and who was prey. Not that he was complaining—indeed, he'd never had such intimate foreplay before. The danger lay in not knowing when to stop; consequently, Jensen was following Jared's lead, and loving every moment even as he ached with need.

There were rules, apparently, to wooing one's skittish footman-cum-valet. One of them seemed to involve many long, slow kisses in dark corners and empty hallways, Jensen up against a wall with Jared pressed in close enough to feel both their hearts beating. There were rules involving sidelong glances and lingering touches while Jensen was dressing for one of his many dinner engagements, or the theatre, or for any reason at all. Jared became, all of a sudden, unable to find the most commonplace articles of clothing, leaving Jensen standing naked or almost so in the middle of the room while he laboriously searched—such searches often taking fifteen minutes or more.

They didn't speak of it. Not in words, at least. But each day Jensen stopped by his obliging flower-seller, and each morning Jared wore a different bloom in his buttonhole in reply, and in this fashion they carried out a silent flirtation that made Jensen smile to think of it.

The morning after their first kiss, Jared wore a sprig of peppermint entwined with fir. _Warmth of feeling_ , it meant, and _Time._ Jensen responded with gooseberry and Spanish jasmine, wound about with sweet pea: _Anticipation_ and _Sensuality_ , held together by _Delicate pleasures_. Jared blushed all the way to his hair; then he pushed Jensen down on the bed and kissed him for a solid half-hour.

He presented Jensen with queen's rocket and vervain. _You are the queen of coquettes. I am enchanted._

Jensen gave him a saffron-coloured crocus and white dittany of Crete— _Mirth_ mixed with _Passion_ —and spent the entire day grinning.

"Whatever's gotten into you?" Sandy asked, as they rode in the park that afternoon, her maid following at a discreet distance. "You look like the proverbial cat who got the cream."

_Not yet_ , Jensen thought, and smiled sedately. "It must be your charming company."

"Oh, I'm sure. You always grin like a loon whenever I comment on the weather." Sandy's tone was drier than a desert. "Come on, tell me. What is it that has you smiling so mysteriously whenever you think no-one's looking?"

Jensen hesitated, unwilling to lie but even more unwilling to reveal the entire truth. Sandy wouldn't revile him—she had a brother who was, as she put it, 'in the theatre', and spoke of him with great affection—but there was a part of him that wished to keep his relationship with Jared a secret, something to be held close and nurtured until it could stand up to the disapproval of society.

The fact that he was thinking in such a fashion should have come as a complete surprise to him; the fact that it did not was a surprise in and of itself.

He'd never intended for things to happen this way. Here was Sandy, sweet and good and perfect, a partner any man would be proud of. She had become a fast friend and _confidante_ , someone who shared his views and sense of humour, a paragon of virtue with a charming smile and a personality he found utterly adorable.

Then there was Jared, fascinating and enigmatic, holding Jensen at arm's length for God only knew what reasons, their attachment spiced with danger and one they could never proclaim aloud.

Jensen looked at Sandy and knew he should want her. He looked at Jared and could not think of anyone else.

Added to this confusion was the uncertainty of Jared's regard for him. There were times when Jensen knew down to his bones that the tall footman wanted him, that they were of one mind and heart on the matter. Other times, he felt as though they were strangers with a wall between them, and the thought pained him more than he liked to admit. He'd spent several sleepless nights debating whether to press the issue, forswear his promise and press for more than Jared had yet allowed—but the risk of losing everything stopped him.

"I want to tell you," he said at last, "but I'm not—it's. Complicated. It—I'm—I've ..."

He spluttered to a halt, unable to get the words out. Sandy stared at him, eyes wide with amazement.

"Jensen Ackles, are you in _love_?"

"I. Er." He tipped his hat down over his eyes. "Maybe."

"'Maybe' means 'yes'," Sandy pointed out. "If you weren't, you would have said so. Am I right?"

"No!"

Sandy gazed at him, her expression unreadable. Jensen gave up.

"All right, yes. I'm a pathetic, grovelling, lovesick mess. Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes, thank you. Or, I would be." Sandy smiled wistfully. "If it were me you were mooning over. But we can't always have everything, can we?"

Jensen gazed at her in dismay, his heart dropping like a stone. Sandy met his eyes directly, without any attempt at coquetry.

"Oh, don't look so anguished," she told him. "I've been expecting this for some time. Half the _ton_ 's in love with you; why should I be any different?"

"But I ..." Jensen began. "Sandy, I never meant—"

"I know that," she interrupted. "I never thought otherwise. We've had a lovely time together, and I've enjoyed every moment of it. But I also know I'm not the one who puts that smile on your face." She leaned over her horse and touched his face briefly, her glove cool on his skin. "And if you're planning to ask me to marry you, as I think you are—don't. Please."

Her voice wobbled on the last word, betraying her feelings. Jensen wanted to comfort her, but she would not welcome that just now.

"I wish I loved you," he said, unable to offer anything else.

"I wish you did too. But last I heard, wishes didn't count for much," she replied, her smile sad. Then she tossed her hair back, gathering up her reins. "Now then, enough of this weepy nonsense. Tell me about your ladylove. I want to know who managed to steal you from under my nose."

"As to that, well." Jensen rubbed his nose, flushing a little. "'Ladylove' is a somewhat misleading term. I should instead say ... 'gentleman friend'."

Sandy's shock lasted only long enough for her to draw another breath. Then she began to laugh, peals of mirth surrounding them until other riders turned to look. Jensen waited for her to calm down, feeling a little foolish.

"I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you, truly," she said when she'd caught her breath. "I just—I feel so much better now. There's no way to compete with that sort of attraction."

"No." Jensen thought of Jared and felt the now-familiar _frisson_ of lust and affection that always followed. "But believe me, if anyone could it would be you."

"That's almost good enough, you know. If I thought even a little less of you, it would be plenty." Sandy sighed. "I think I'll go home now, if you don't mind. I feel a headache coming on."

It was a sap to her pride, and they both knew it. Jensen said nothing, merely kissed her hand and watched her leave with a kernel of disappointment in his heart. She was lovely, and they had become very close. He had planned to propose at the end of the week. Now his best hope of a happy marriage was gone, as was a significant part of their friendship, and it was the latter that pained him more.

"Take care of yourself, sweeting," he murmured after her. And if his heart fluttered at the thought of returning to the house—and Jared—early, he did his best to ignore it. He could at least offer her that much.

* * *

News spread quickly of Jensen's apparent quarrel with Sandy. Within days he found himself once more inundated with invitations, some edged with desperation as the Season progressed and dozens of daughters remained unbetrothed. Jamie insisted he accept as many as possible ("you must get back on the horse, my love"); unable to find a reason not to, Jensen once more found himself caught up in the mad social whirl of the city. He went to balls and dinners and meetings of the Historical Society, and escaped each as soon as he decently could, unable to stay away from Jared for long. But even in that he was thwarted; Welling, being more observant than Jensen had believed, took to 'borrowing' Jared from him on an almost daily basis, claiming the staff were being overworked. Jensen could not object—Jared was after all Welling's employee, not his—but he begrudged Welling every moment they spent apart.

If Jensen were prevented from protesting, Jared was even more constrained by dint of his class and station. Jared appeared to feel the separation no less than he, if his kisses and silent declarations were any indication; his gifts of white clover and bluebells said _Think of me_ and _Constancy_ , and Jensen was only too willing to comply. He replied with mistletoe and peach blossom, each declaring _I surmount difficulties; I am your captive_ more delicately than he could in words.

They gained a reprieve when Rosenbaum issued an invitation to join him at his country estate; a week-long stay was intended, with shooting for the gentlemen and tours of the countryside for the ladies. Jensen fairly leaped at the chance to get away from Town. He did not shoot, but it would be infinitely better to rusticate in Hertfordshire than remain the focus of all female attention in London. Even better, he could take Jared with him and thus elude Welling's attempts to keep them apart.

If Rosenbaum knew of Jensen's estrangement from Sandy, he made no mention of it. Jensen would have refused to discuss the matter in any case—one did not bandy a lady's name about in such a fashion—but Rosenbaum avoided the topic altogether. Sandy was not among the party, having been called away from Town to attend a cousin's wedding, for which Jensen was thankful. Any meeting between them would be awkward, until a little time had passed.

Hertfordshire was green and peaceful, a welcome rest from the city's bustle. Jensen cried off from shooting upon their arrival, proclaiming instead his desire to meander the estate and appreciate its natural beauty. The other members of the party exchanged knowing glances at this; Jensen knew they believed him to be nursing a broken heart, and he did not disabuse them of the notion. If it meant he would be left alone to spend time with his valet, he would confess to a thousand broken hearts.

They spent their days together exploring the estate. Jared was as comfortable on horseback as Jensen, if not more so, and several times they left the house in the early morning and did not return until dinner-time, taking a packed lunch to sustain them through the day. Any pretence of being merely master and servant disappeared completely, much to Jensen's satisfaction. Jared proved to be a quick-witted and knowledgeable conversationalist, his parents' education obviously having taken root in him, to the point where Jensen's own barely-remembered studies failed him on several points of discussion, and he had to admit to ignorance. Normally this would be a source of vexation; with Jared, however, it did not seem to matter.

"Tell me about your parents," he said on the third day, when they stopped for lunch in a high meadow. "You hardly ever speak of them."

"They're dead." Jared looped the horses' reins over a low-hanging tree bough and came over to where Jensen was standing. "Both of them, six years ago. They were teachers. I think I told you that."

"Yes, you did. It was our first meeting, as I recall." Jensen was spreading out a blanket for them to recline upon; he paused in the task to look at Jared with an impish grin. "Well, unless you count the upstart manner in which you ogled me in the street."

"I do not," Jared replied, unruffled. "Besides, I believe you were the one doing the ogling on that occasion."

"Bite your tongue. An Ackles does not ogle. Or stare. Or cast inappropriate glances of any kind in public. An Ackles _appreciates_ , and then politely looks away."

"Call it what you want." Jared shrugged. "All I know is, your eyes were almost popping out of your head."

"They were not. I was _extremely_ subtle."

"You were all set to climb atop the carriage and hump my leg," Jared corrected. His grin flashed bright, and Jensen dropped the blanket in his fascination. It was several moments before he noticed, and even then Jared had to stoop and smooth out the edges of the cloth. Jensen cleared his throat and tried to regain his air of insouciance.

"Are you implying that I'm some sort of indiscriminate hound, slobbering over all and sundry?" he murmured, watching the sunlight glint off golden-brown hair.

"Hound, yes. Indiscriminate, no." Jared sprawled on the blanket and started pulling food out of their luncheon basket. "You're not subtle, but you do have excellent taste."

He leaned back on his elbows and grinned again, looking straight into Jensen's eyes in a manner that he never would have dared several weeks ago. Jensen remembered the startled-deer stance Jared had presented when they first met; looking at him now, relaxed and at his ease in Jensen's company, it was hard to believe this was the same man.

"I do have an eye for quality," he said almost to himself, gazing at Jared's lithe form.

Jared's eyes grew darker in a now-familiar fashion; Jensen's body responded automatically, bringing him to full throbbing hardness in mere seconds, sending his heart rate skyward and making his palms sweat. The silence of the countryside seemed very loud all of a sudden.

They were completely alone out here. There was nobody around for miles; they'd made sure of that when they rode out this way, wanting to escape the prying eyes of Rosenbaum's other guests. They weren't expected back at the house for hours.

_Plenty of time,_ Jensen thought, and then, _Nowhere near enough._

He feigned a cough and looked away, scanning the horizon in an attempt to keep his eyes off Jared. "How did your parents come to be in London?"

He could feel Jared's eyes on him, questioning the change of mood, but he dared not return the look. He wasn't sure of his self-control, were he to see an invitation in Jared's eyes. He wanted that more than anything; but Jared must _make_ the overture, not merely welcome it. Those were the terms of their bargain. Jared may have forgotten, but Jensen had not.

"They ran a schoolhouse in southern Texas," Jared said, his voice perfectly even. "It was quite well-known in the area; several notable families sent their children to be taught there rather than hiring a tutor. The venture was partly financed by a friend of my father's. When he expanded his business operations to England, he invited my parents to join him and open another school here."

Jensen settled on the blanket, a careful distance away. "What happened to them?"

"Cholera. We were living in Hull during the second outbreak, in 'forty-nine."

Jensen dared a quick look; Jared's eyes were downcast, his mouth a sad line. "I was away in Yorkshire at the time, buying books for my father's library. It was days before the news reached me. I barely returned in time for the funeral."

"Oh, my dear." Jensen moved without thought, shifting until he sat half behind Jared's shoulder, close enough to stroke his hair. "That must have been awful."

"It was." Jared exhaled, leaning into Jensen's touch. "They hadn't much of a fortune to bequeath, and the house went to the new schoolmaster ... so, here I am."

"Here you are," Jensen repeated. He rested his hand on Jared's nape. "Had you thought of going to college, before? Surely you must have."

"We discussed it. My parents thought we could manage, as long as the fees weren't too prohibitive. I meant to take over my father's duties in the schoolroom so he could concentrate on gaining new students." Jared paused for a moment; Jensen felt him swallow. "After the—afterward, I couldn't afford it. I needed to work just to have a place to sleep. Thankfully my father's friend gave me a character so I could look for a position in Town. I started out as a stable lad, and eventually found a situation as footman, with the Wellings. The rest you already know."

Jensen closed his eyes, sorrow filling him at the thought of Jared, fourteen and alone, thrust into the midst of London to fend for himself. It explained much about him that had previously been so baffling: his wariness and distrust, probably born of hard-earned lessons learned in those early days; his obvious intelligence; his lack of the usual servant's deference, which had somehow never seemed strange. It occurred to Jensen that in other circumstances, and fortunes aside, Jared would have been his equal. _Was_ his equal, in every way that counted.

"Do you have any idea how wonderful you are?" he asked, and laid a kiss on Jared's temple.

Jared turned to meet his gaze. His eyes were wide, and very green.

"Sir ..." he began. Jensen laid a finger on his lips.

"Jensen," he corrected. "I won't have you calling me 'sir'."

"I don't have the right—"

"You have more right than anyone," Jensen said, and Jared went shockingly pale.

"Don't say that," he said, pulling away.

"Why not?" Jensen shrugged, ignoring the flutter of panic in his stomach. "It's the truth."

"It shouldn't be." Jared drew his knees up to his chest and clasped his arms around them. "You shouldn't even be here right now."

"Where else should I be, pray tell?" Jensen asked, a little sharper than he intended. "Dancing attendance on every unattached female I meet, simply to ensure I can meet my tailor's bill?"

"Yes," Jared shot back. "You ought to be in Town, with Miss McCoy or Miss Graham or any of the others, choosing one of them to marry. Or had you forgotten that's why you're here?"

"I don't wish to discuss that." Jensen shifted onto his knees, reaching out toward Jared. "I don't care a brass farthing for any of them; they're nothing compared to—"

"Compared to this?" Jared interrupted with a harsh laugh. "Listen to yourself. You're risking your entire future as we speak, and for what? A chance to plow my _pretty arse_? Don't give up your fortune for that, sir. I'm quite sure it's not worth it."

He stared at Jensen, shoulders hunched, face hard, completely closed off. Jensen saw the way his hands trembled as he gripped his knees, however, and knew he wasn't nearly as composed as he seemed.

"Jared," he said, "look at me. Please."

Jared raised rebellious eyes to his face. Jensen met his gaze steadily, and did not look away.

"If your arse was all I wanted," he said, "we would not be here right now. We'd be in London, with my ring on some chit's finger and you in my bed every night." He breathed deep, letting go of an unnamed tension he'd been carrying. "Fortunately—or not, depending on your view—I am not quite so much of a rake as that. I find myself unable to court a wife when my head is full of you. I have tried, and it ended badly. I do not fancy trying again."

Jared's face paled as he spoke, every muscle drawing tight.

"You don't know what you're saying," Jared said in a low voice. "You've no idea what it's like, always wondering where your next meal will come from, or whether you've enough coin to buy a roof for the night. You don't know what it is to be forced to consider things— _do_ things—you never dreamed you would."

He looked at Jensen, eyes wide and a little desperate. "You must hold fast to what you have, because there might never be anything more. And I—I couldn't bear to see you with anything less."

Jensen listened with an aching heart as all of Jared's uncertainty came out in his words. Here was the source of his hesitation, the reason he held back despite the heat Jensen saw in his eyes. The final pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and the indecision teasing at the edges of his mind became, in an instant, resolve as hard as iron.

In the end, it wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. It wasn't difficult at all.

"I may very well be the most lack-brained, slack-jawed idiot to ever prance across a drawing room," he said, calm and sure. "And I may very well end up pitched onto the street outside my stepmother's house with naught but the clothes I stand up in. But I promise you, Jared—" he paused, watching Jared's eyes flick back to him "—should such a thing ever come to pass, I will sleep sounder than a babe that night no matter where I am."

Jared opened his mouth to speak; Jensen forestalled him with an upraised palm.

"I could not share my bed with another, Jared. Not for all the world."

Jared shook his head in stubborn denial.

"I won't let you ruin yourself because of me."

"I prefer the term 'liberate'," Jensen said, trying for lightness. "I fail to see how you can prevent it; you can't force me to wed any more than her Ladyship can."

"No, I can't." Jared was on his feet suddenly, so quick Jensen fell back at the abruptness of it. Jared loomed over him, face hidden by the noonday sun shining at his back. "I've no claim on your actions. But neither do you have claim on mine."

In the next instant he was gone, freeing his horse's reins and mounting before Jensen finished blinking the sun's glare away. By the time Jensen drew breath to speak, Jared was kneeing his horse into a gallop and not looking back. Jensen scrambled to his feet, but it was already too late. He watched as Jared angled for a stand of poplars half a mile distant; by the time he could reach it, Jared would be long gone.

Jensen looked at the untouched food on the ground, the scene mocking him. What had been a cosily intimate spread for two was now a sad spectacle, with him as the fool. With a sigh, he packed up the basket and blanket and tied them to his horse's withers, swinging into the saddle as though he were a hundred years old.

He returned to the estate at an easy pace, trying to think of how to convince Jared he meant what he'd said. Jared's lack of faith stung more than a little, but in a world where the gentry lied as easily as breathing, it was understandable. Jensen would simply have to try _very_ hard to win Jared over to his way of thinking.

Thoughts of how he could do just that made the ride both a pleasure and a curse, as Jensen's erection chafed against the saddle with every movement. He saw the house come into view with some relief, and wondered if Jared had yet returned. Possibly not; he had been quite upset. Jensen decided to give the word that Jared was at liberty for the afternoon, should anyone inquire. He had not forgotten his promise to keep Jared's position safe. Nobody was like to remark on his absence apart from the other servants, but among them he was popular. Jensen did not intend to change that if he could help it.

Jared's dappled mare was indeed still absent from the stables when Jensen returned. He refused the head groom's offer to look after his gelding, rubbing the animal down himself and seeing him settled with hay and oats in his stall. It was soothing work, and it allowed him more time to think—and the opportunity to linger in the stables in case Jared should return.

He was forking fresh straw down from the hayloft when he heard voices drifting up from below.

"—took off like his backside was afire, he did," said old Bob, the elderly groom charged with mending tack. "Come ragin' in, pale as death and twice as scary, and he's barely here ten minutes afore he's back on his horse and tearin' out again. Never saw anyone move so fast in me life."

"A shilling says he's been caught tupping one of the village girls," said a second voice, one Jensen couldn't identify. "Not much else'll set a lad to movin' that fast in t'other direction, aye?"

"Not that one," Bob replied at once. "I've seen a good many lads who've run, aye, can't help it, working in a stable—but young Irish don't strike me as one of that type. He'd stand his ground rather than flee. No, it's sommat else has got him spooked, poor lad."

The two men moved away then, their conversation fading into murmurs, but Jensen barely noticed. He was stunned, cold with shock as their words began to sink in. They were talking about _Jared_. Saying he'd—what? Come back, collected his belongings and left again, apparently. Jensen nearly dropped the pitchfork, hands slippery with sweat.

Jared's parting words came back to him, heavy with new meaning.

"Oh, you fool," Jensen whispered; whether to himself or Jared, he did not know.

He had to find him, but Jensen had no idea where Jared might have gone. Jared was several hours ahead of him already, and if he'd gone cross-country Jensen knew there was no hope of catching up with him before dark. And he couldn't leave here without raising a great many questions he wasn't prepared to answer just yet. It was a perfect impasse, and Jensen was caught squarely in the middle.

Jensen finished spreading the gelding's straw; then he flung down the pitchfork and went into the main house, his face grim. Everyone he met scuttled out of his way, not meeting his eyes, murmured apologies barely registering as he brushed past. Jensen ignored them all, seeing no-one and nothing until he reached his rooms and stood with the locked door behind him.

Jensen was a gentleman, true. But he was also a Texan rancher's son, and he knew how to hunt.

He went immediately to the wardrobe, pulling out a battered leather duffel bag stored beneath his neatly hanging clothes. He placed on his bed, pulling out its contents and inspecting each item, repacking the bag as he went. Knife; candles; matches; dried meat; hardtack; a large flask of water. Underneath it all went his bedroll and an oilskin groundsheet; those, along with his duster, had kept him warm and dry through many nights in the open. The weather was mild, April edging into June, but Jensen was taking no chances. With that in mind, he went to the wooden box on the dresser, mahogany dark and glossy. A birthday present from Joshua five years ago, it contained a pair of matching pistols. The box was painted with the Ackles family crest: two blue halberts, crossed on a shield of silver. The pistols' grips were mahogany also, carved with Jensen's initials.

_Se defendeno_ , was the family motto. _In his own defence._ It seemed appropriate.

Jensen laid the duffel at the foot of his bed. He would set out at first light to track Jared down, and he would not stop until he found him.

* * *

Jensen retired early that night, pleading a sunstroke. The rest of the party paid him little mind, by now accustomed to his aloofness; but Jensen saw Rosenbaum watching as he said good night, his expression shrewd. Jensen nodded to him across the room, as a courtesy, then fled before the ever-hopeful Miss Krupa could corner him again.

Once abed, Jensen found it impossible to sleep. He tried every method he knew, from counting sheep to the absurd deep breathing technique Joshua had learned in the Orient, but nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Jared's face, pale and set in stark lines of determination and regret.

Jensen planned to kiss those lines away very soon. If he didn't come to blows with the lad first, that was. Jared no doubt thought he was being noble, removing himself from the scene so Jensen might wed without distraction; what he had not considered, however, was the fact that Jensen no longer intended to marry at all, whether Jared was with him or not. He knew down to his bones that it was Jared alone he wanted. He could not bring himself to wed another while Jared was still free. If that meant losing his father's fortune, so be it. The price was worth knowing his own heart at last.

Jensen tossed and turned in his great lonely bed into the small hours of the morning, needing to rest but unable to catch more than a few minutes' sleep at a time. He was on the edge of one such doze when the door to his room creaked open, closed again, and the lock's tumblers snicked quietly into place.

It seemed Miss Krupa was more devious than he'd believed. Jensen sighed and rolled onto his back, preparing to develop a sudden bout of stomach cramps. Brought on by too much food after all that sunshine, no doubt. He wondered if he could still retch on command. It had been several months since he'd needed to—that captain's daughter in Forth Worth, oh, what a near debâcle that had been—but the body seldom forgot such things. Jensen strained his ears to hear her stealthy footsteps, trying to judge the best time to commence his groans.

Not two seconds later, a muffled and decidedly masculine 'oof!' made him start, and Jensen sat bolt upright as a heavy warm weight fell across his legs.

"... the devil?" he said, bewildered; his mouth fell open in shock as Jared crawled up over his body in the dark.

"Just 'Jared' will do, sir," came the amused reply. "Who left that damned bag on the floor? I nearly broke my foot tripping over it."

Jensen snapped his mouth shut. "I did," he said after a moment. "I wanted to have it ready, so I could leave at first light to find—"

He stared up at the dim outline of Jared's face, hovering inches above his own. The moon was only half full, not enough light to see clearly; but Jared's teeth flashed white, his eyes gleaming in the gloom.

"—you," Jensen finished dazedly. He felt as if he'd been hit on the head. The room wasn't spinning, but he thought it ought to be.

"Me." Jared reared up a fraction, his head cocked to one side. "You were coming after me?"

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I was," Jensen snapped. "I was intending to hunt you down and do whatever it took to get you to see sense. Only it appears you did that all by yourself, which means I don't have to get up early after all. Bless you, my sweet."

He beamed at Jared; then he reached up and smacked him hard on the back of the head.

"Ouch!" Jared sat up and rubbed the offended spot. "What was that for?"

"Making me worry," Jensen said, striving for nonchalance. "I'd rather you didn't do it again, if it's all the same to you. Fretting makes for unpleasant lines on one's face, and I'm much too handsome to endure such things."

Jared huffed laughter into the space between them, looking at Jensen fondly. "I'll avoid such behaviour in the future, then, to be sure."

"Truly?" Jensen asked, his voice catching. All merriment fell away, leaving him feeling stripped bare. "You won't leave like that again?"

"I doubt I could leave you at all." Jared's voice was soft. "I went barely ten miles before I found myself turning back. I waited in the stables until the house went to bed, and broke a kitchen window to get inside."

Jensen inhaled sharply, suddenly wide awake and very aware of Jared's weight pressing him into the bed. He moved his hands away from Jared's hips, where they had settled of their own accord, and cleared his throat. _Think of being trapped in here with Miss Rimes and all her relatives,_ he willed, trying to make his burgeoning erection subside. _Think of Great-Aunt Harriet and her turkey neck. Or that revolting friend of Father's, the one with the awful neckties and the ham-hands._

"It's late. You'd best get to bed," he said in as normal a voice as possible. "You must be tired from all that riding."

Jared smiled at him, slow and almost _sultry_ , and lowered himself again until his knees were on either side of Jensen's thighs and he rested comfortably, elbows planted beside Jensen's shoulders.

"Not just yet. I think I've a bit more riding to do first."

Jensen went completely still, not daring to move.

"Be sure, Jared," he warned, voice unsteady. "Be absolutely certain. I don't want either of us to regret anything, come the morning."

Jared leaned down and kissed Jensen's forehead, resting his own against it.

"The only thing I shall regret," he whispered, "is making you wait so long." He pulled back, carding one hand through Jensen's hair. "I found some four-leaf clover on the return journey. I ... meant to leave it on the dresser when I saw you sleeping, but I couldn't bear to go."

Jensen's heart stopped beating altogether when the import of Jared's gift sank in. Four-leaf clover. _Be mine._ An unequivocal, unmistakeable overture.

"Jared," he breathed, scarcely daring to believe.

"Jensen," Jared returned, soft and heated and sure. He closed the distance between them, pressing a kiss as light as air on Jensen's mouth ... and Jensen's mind exploded.

He arched up into Jared's weight, blindly seeking; their mouths met and lips parted, tongues twining in a kiss at once familiar and new. Jensen couldn't catch his breath, heart pounding a mile a minute as Jared rolled them over to lie beneath him, legs splayed wide to let Jensen nestle between.

"Make me yours," Jared said against his lips. "Please."

Jensen growled in answer, plunging both hands into Jared's hair and dragging it loose. Unbound, it spread like silk across the pillows, cool and smooth to his touch. He clenched his fists in it and leaned down, taking Jared's mouth in deep kisses that spoke of possession, relief and desire so fierce he felt afire with the intensity of it. Jared melted into him, moving into each new kiss as if it were oxygen, hands roving under the bedclothes to caress Jensen's naked skin. The touch of his warm rough palms hardened Jensen further, made him shudder and arch, until he wrenched his mouth free and gasped for air.

"Clothes off," he panted, tugging at Jared's coat with one hand and his twisted blankets with the other. "Get them off. By God, you feel wonderful, I need—"

Jared dipped his head and closed his teeth around Jensen's nipple, cutting off his words with a whimper. Jensen held Jared's head close, one hand going to his nape under the heavy fall of his hair, as Jared sucked and nibbled, finally sliding free with a final flick of his tongue to strip out of his clothes

They spent a frustrating few minutes getting Jared naked, hands tangling around stock and waistcoat, kissing and fondling all the while. Jensen shoved his blankets to the foot of the bed; when indoors, he slept unclad in all but the coldest weather. Jared made his appreciation plain when he finally kicked off his trousers and rolled into Jensen's arms.

"Gorgeous," he breathed, mouthing at Jensen's jaw. "So many times ... you've no idea, how often I've wanted to touch you—like this," sweeping one hand from hip to shoulder, "or this," smoothing along neck and collarbone. "Or this," Jared whispered, taking Jensen's cock in hand. He pumped it once, slowly; Jensen's bones turned to water, and all he could do was clutch at Jared's shoulders and moan.

"I want this inside me." Jared's low voice in his ear made Jensen shiver. "So deep, we can't tell where one leaves off and the other begins." He pumped Jensen's cock again, hips working against his thigh. "Tell me you'll do that for me, Jensen. Tell me you'll fuck me. Hold me. Never let go."

Jensen let out a shaky breath and covered Jared's hand with his own, stilling it mid-stroke. "Stop. Stop, or I'll never—it'll be over too soon." He ran his other hand over Jared's chest and belly, down to his cock and up into his hair, gripping hard. "Have you ever—?"

"Years ago." Jared's tongue flicked out to wet his lips. "We were boys. My father's best pupil, he—"

Jensen kissed him quiet, not wanting to hear. He had a small pot of lubricating oil in his bedside drawer, but first ...

He reached for Jared's cock, hard and wet. Pre-come slicked his fingers, sharp and salty when he tasted it. Jared dropped his head and let out a broken sigh when Jensen reached behind him.

"Holy Mother of God," Jensen swore. His fingers encountered no resistance, sliding deep. "What ..."

"I didn't want to wait. If we—if this happened. I want you, Jensen." Jared's hips moved in a slow circle, his teeth grazing the skin behind Jensen's ear. "You can use your fingers another time, but not now. Not now. Please—I want your cock in me." He rolled onto his stomach, pulling Jensen over to cover his back. "Like this."

The moment they pressed together, skin to skin, Jensen felt like he'd come home. He shifted onto his knees, lifting Jared's hips to shove a pillow beneath, spreading his thighs as wide as they would go. When he began to push inside, inch by slow inch, Jared reached back and tried to spread himself wider.

"Yes, God, Jensen, oh," he chanted, a breath of sound almost lost in the slide of skin and the rustle of bedsheets. Jensen had one hand on Jared's back, steadying them both; when he was fully sheathed, cock throbbing and insisting he _move_ , he stroked that hand up to Jared's nape, pressing him down.

"You're mine," he said, the words stark and plain. "You understand? _Mine_. No others, ever again."

Jared made a noise deep in his chest and put his hand up to Jensen's, lacing their fingers together on his neck; then he braced his elbows on the bed and pushed against Jensen's hips.

"Prove it."

Jensen eased out of him almost entirely, and slid back in, a leisurely stroke that made Jared's voice break. Jensen breathed deeply with each stroke, controlling his movements, changing the angle each time until Jared's stuttered breathing told him he had found what he sought.

"There you are," Jensen murmured, and curled a hand around Jared's cock. For every thrust of his hips he gave a stroke of his hand, until Jared was rocking back and forth in near desperation, every breath a ragged gasp. Jensen kept his cadence steady, ignoring the wildfire in his veins urging him to plunge deep and hard and without restraint. There would be time for that, and soon; for now, he needed Jared to fall apart.

"Come for me," he whispered into Jared's neck, licking and biting the sweaty skin. "Let me feel you shatter. Come for me, Jared, beautiful, mine now, come—"

Jared let out a deep, throttled moan and trembled under him, muscles flexing and contracting. Jensen fucked him through his climax, hand gentle on Jared's cock, until the aftershocks faded away. Only then did he let himself go. Jared was warm and sated under him, still pushing back to meet Jensen's every thrust; Jensen gave in to his own need, smooth friction caressing his nerve endings in shorter and shorter bursts until he stopped, overcome, and spilled himself deep in Jared's willing body.

Jared grunted when Jensen collapsed on him, but didn't complain. One large hand came up to pet Jensen's hair awkwardly, then flopped back to the bed. They lay there unmoving, almost dozing until Jensen found the energy to shift to one side. He groped for the edge of the sheet to clean them both off; then he draped an arm over Jared's waist and let sleep take him, feeling truly content for the first time in years.

* * *

The excited whimpers of hunting hounds woke him the next morning, as the rest of the house party prepared to set off. Jensen reached automatically for his spectacles, squinting in the early morning light; it was only then he realised he was trapped, Jared's heavy arm slung tight across his back, holding him close.

Jensen pulled back as far as he was able and tried to focus on Jared's face. He seemed younger in repose, hair loose and flowing over his shoulders, his customary wariness gone and a sweet innocence left in its place. Jensen wanted to guard that innocence with everything he had.

"You're watching me." Jared's mouth curved. "There's a price for that, as I recall."

Jensen flushed all over as Jared opened lazy, half-lidded eyes to stare at his mouth. He wet his lips in unconscious response, and Jared's eyes darkened with want.

"Can't you allow for a single indiscretion?" Jensen injected as much sincerity into his voice as he could. "I was only staring because of your startling beauty. How can I be blamed for that?"

"An Ackles never stares," Jared reminded him. "An Ackles _appreciates_." He rolled onto his back and stretched, all golden skin and shining hair tempting Jensen's touch. "You may commence appreciating at will, sir."

Jensen opened his mouth to reply, but paused when he saw the clover Jared had brought, lying abandoned on the dresser. He rolled to his feet to fetch it, sprigs falling to the floor as he returned to the bed.

"I believe this belongs to me," he said, standing over Jared.

"True enough," Jared agreed. He appeared relaxed, but Jensen could see the slight tightening around eyes and mouth that indicated tension. He smiled, sprinkling the clover across Jared's body. It glowed lush and green against his skin.

"I vowed it once already," Jensen said, "but for the sake of completeness, I'll say it again."

He crawled onto the bed, hovering over Jared on all fours.

"You're mine, Jared. Don't forget."

Jared's arms went around him; his legs tangled with Jensen's own.

"Done and done," he said softly, and pulled Jensen down for a kiss.

They rolled across the bed, laughing and stroking, and when Jensen kissed his way down to Jared's cock a few minutes later he met the sharp green flavour of clover.

It tasted like them.


	3. Chapter 3

They were very nearly late for breakfast.

Jensen offered to hunt down something to eat, but Jared refused.

"It's not appropriate," he argued. "You can't go rifling through the kitchens, you'll upset the staff. I'll go." So saying, he left Jensen lazing in bed after a spine-tingling kiss, then went downstairs, looking somewhat dishevelled and plainly not caring a whit.

Jensen laced his fingers behind his head and grinned up at the ceiling. He felt wonderful, as though a great weight had been lifted from him. Jared, once he discarded his notion of leaving, had thrown himself wholeheartedly into their _affaire de coeur_ to the point where Jensen found himself exhausted. They had consummated their _rapprochement_ twice more during the night, and after the interlude this morning Jensen was ready to plead for a respite. A short one, to be sure—Jared was too alluring to resist for long—but a man must rest if he were to continue such amorous adventures.

A man must eat as well. Jensen's stomach growled, reminding him that he had not partaken of much at dinner the night before. He considered breaking into his stash of jerky and hardtack, but the thought of Jared returning with a proper breakfast made him want to wait. He began instead to compose a list of things to do once Jared returned. Most of them involved a great deal of nudity and bodily fluids, and several were known only by their foreign descriptions, there being no English translation. His forebears, Jensen reflected, were sadly unimaginative in some areas.

When perhaps a quarter-hour had gone by with no sign of Jared's return, Jensen began to worry. Or, more precisely, he became concerned that something had happened to delay him. Perhaps Miss Krupa had given up on snagging Jensen and waylaid Jared instead.

Just as he was getting out of bed, preparatory to finding Jared and absconding with him and an indecent amount of food, the gentleman in question returned bearing a tray that smelled almost as enticing as he looked. Jensen opened his mouth to chide Jared for making him wait; when he saw the look on his love's face, however, all mirth departed.

"What is it?" he asked, crossing the room. Jared stood in the open doorway, a queer blankness to his expression. Jensen pulled him into the room, sparing no more than a glance for a passing chambermaid who gasped at his nakedness. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Jared shrugged away from Jensen's touch. "I—the kitchens are in an uproar, what with the hunting party and all. It was a struggle to escape." He deposited the tray on an end table and moved toward the bathroom. "Do you want to bathe? I'll get your shaving kit. The blue suit today, I think, it's warm out—"

"Jared, stop."

Jensen watched him obey, going completely still, hands by his sides.

"Sir?"

"Don't do that." Jensen rounded his tall frame, standing so close Jared had no choice but to look at him. "What's going on?"

"Just—leave it," Jared said. "Please. It—this was a mistake, that's all."

"I trust you don't mean what happened last night."

Jared wouldn't look at him. "It shouldn't have happened. It mustn't happen again."

It was like seeing the old Jared again, the one he'd called 'Padalecki', who flinched at a _risqué_ word and wouldn't let Jensen within five feet of him. What could possibly have happened in so short a time to cause Jared to revert like this?

"Someone spoke to you," Jensen realised. "Or you heard someone talking. Who was it? I feel the need to share a few words myself, all of a sudden."

Jared darted a quick look at him, but didn't reply. Jensen saw the apprehension in his eyes and smiled grimly.

"Not one of the staff, then, I take it? Good. I shouldn't like to change my opinion of them."

"Maybe not _them_ ," Jared muttered. "More like—"

His mouth snapped shut, but Jensen already knew what he'd been about to say.

"Their master?" he suggested, and nodded when Jared flinched. "Let me guess. He saw you downstairs, looking well-ravished and utterly delectable, and pulled you aside to have a quiet word about the dangers of keeping company with those above your station. When that had no effect, he moved on to persuasion, perhaps trying to lure you into his own bed?—Yes, I thought so. And when you turned him down, he threatened you with charges of indecency and the loss of your position with his _very_ good friend Welling. Is that about the way of it?"

"Yes." Jared's voice was low, barely above a whisper.

"I see." Jensen gazed at Jared a moment longer. Then he turned and went into the bedroom, leaving Jared staring after him.

"Run a bath, will you?" Jensen called out, thinking furiously. "I'll be there directly."

He opened a small wooden box on the dresser and rifled through it, wondering if he still had—ah, there it was. He pulled out an enamelled stickpin, with a design of red tulips edged in gold. It had been his brother's, given him by a sweetheart. Jensen closed his fingers over it and went back into the sitting room.

Jared was still there, looking like a puppy whose master had just kicked him. He lifted miserable eyes to meet Jensen's and stood braced as if against a blow.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Jensen said. He tilted Jared's chin down for a matter-of-fact kiss. "I'm almost positive that bath is big enough to hold us both. I only hope the breakfast tray will sustain us both as well." He grinned at Jared's nonplussed expression. "Did you really believe I'd give you up so easily?"

Jared's mouth curved against his in a second kiss, trembling the slightest bit. Jensen bit gently at his lower lip and pulled away, taking Jared's hand and curling it around the pin.

"A little gift for you," he said casually. "Something I found in my effects. I thought you might like it."

Jared looked at the pin, eyes widening when he saw its design. He stared at it for what seemed like forever, perfectly still, hardly appearing to breathe. Jensen's heart threatened to pound its way out of his chest.

"Roses are more traditional," Jensen said, needing to break the silence. "But they can be ambiguous. The red tulip's message is simple. It cannot be misconstrued."

Jared's fingers closed protectively over the pin; his other hand came out to yank Jensen closer, and his mouth crashed down to take Jensen's in a scorching kiss.

"You bastard," Jared breathed into his ear. "Where the hell am I going to find an answer for this?"

"I believe our _dear_ host keeps ambrosia in his gardens," Jensen offered. "That would be doubly fitting, don't you think?"

Red tulips and ambrosia: _Declaration of love_ and _Love returned_. Things he'd never dreamed of saying. Now he wanted to say them every day for the rest of their lives.

Jared pulled him into the bathroom, divesting himself of his clothes as they went.

"You may well regret this," he warned Jensen as they stumbled their way across the room. "You've driven me near mad with your teasing and your damned flowers and your damned _game_ —" He caught Jensen's face between his hands and ravaged his mouth, not holding back, and Jensen had a fleeting thought that perhaps he wasn't quite exhausted after all.

"Not a game," he gasped as Jared dropped to his knees. "Not anymore—everything— _God_ , Jared, do that again. Again—Christ, yes. _Yes_."

He babbled mindless words, not caring what they might be, his whole being focused on the warm wetness surrounding his cock. Jared worked him frantically with hand and lips, bringing him to a climax so fast and powerful it almost hurt, swallowing every drop. When it was over, Jensen found himself sitting on the edge of the bath, staring at nothing while Jared ran the water to fill it.

"What ..." Jensen cleared his throat. It was husky from yelling. "What was that?"

"Breakfast. Or part of it, at least." Jared finished undressing, his cock standing out hard from his body. "Which reminds me; I brought sausages." He grinned and went to fetch the tray, moving with sleek feline grace. Jensen turned off the taps absently, unable to look away.

"What's this?" Jared's smile was open, his eyes sparkling when he returned. "No staring, remember?"

"To hell with that." Jensen snorted. "Have you perchance ever seen your backside in a mirror?"

"Flattery will get you everywhere." Jared nudged him into the bath, easing in after so they sat chest to back. "It has been said, however, that a true gentleman proves his worth with actions, not words."

He found Jensen's hand under the water and laced their fingers together, then brought them to his cock. Jensen encircled the smooth shaft, stroking lazily, and Jared sank back into him with a quiet grunt of pleasure. His head rested on Jensen's shoulder; the water lapped gently with their movements, and all was quiet but for the slip-splash of Jensen's hand on Jared's cock. Jensen mouthed away the water clinging to Jared's neck and upper chest, tasting sweat and clean skin; he sped his strokes a little more, and Jared moaned, resting one foot on the side of the bath to give him more room. They shared a long, slow kiss, Jensen's free hand buried deep in Jared's hair, holding him still; then Jared's climax overtook him, shuddering and quaking with it. Jensen watched him spurt white over his fingers; he tasted it, and savoured every drop. Jared leaned in to share it, kissing until the salt tang was gone. Then they subsided, lying together in the water until it began to grow tepid.

It was while sharing the breakfast tray and trying, with many pleasurable delays, to dress that Jensen managed to prise out of Jared the details of his encounter with Rosenbaum. It was not pleasant; in fact, by the time Jared was done Jensen was livid with fury, more so than he had ever been.

"Threats, insinuations and attempted blackmail," he said dryly, trying to contain himself. "How lovely. Our host is a truly fine specimen of manhood, don't you think?"

Jared was once again looking miserable. Jensen sighed and leaned against him where they sat on the sofa, feeling a certain regret at this turn of events. Rosenbaum had been a good friend, and with his connexion to Welling to consider ... well. There was nothing to be done. Jensen would not have been able to continue staying with the Wellings anyway, given he was about to deprive them of a footman and shock the entire _ton_ in the doing.

"Stay here," he said, getting to his feet. "I must find Rosenbaum and take our leave."

Jared looked at him worriedly, chewing on his thumbnail. "You're going to do something stupid, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

"How well you know me, my love," Jensen quipped, but the smile on his face was anything but playful. "Someone needs to remind dear Michael that he cannot always have things just as he likes, and that gentlemen do not use intimidation. If nobody else will do the job, I am happy to oblige."

"Jensen, no." Jared caught his arm. "Don't do this on my account. You've lost enough as it is."

"Surely you don't expect me to ignore this? He _threatened_ you, Jared. He tried to coerce you into his bed. Do you really believe I wish to have any more to do with him?" Jensen disengaged Jared's hand gently but firmly. "No. I cannot respect or esteem a man who would do such a thing to anyone, let alone someone I hold dear."

"I'll go with you, then." Jared was apprehensive, yet determined. "Just in case you need me."

"I always need you," Jensen said, "but you may not wish to be present. Michael can be vicious when he is challenged."

"I don't care what he says, so long as he does not insult you." Jared thrust his jaw out pugnaciously. "If he does, he'll wear my fist in his face soon after."

"So fierce." Jensen grinned. "There won't be any need for that. Michael wouldn't stand a chance against either of us in fisticuffs, and he knows it. Come along."

They went side by side downstairs, seeking and finding Rosenbaum in the dining room. The hunting party were just finishing their breakfast. Rosenbaum was holding court at the head of the table, a wicked smile on his face as he jested with Hartley. He looked up as Jensen and Jared walked in, and a look of unease crossed his face, hastily masked with _bonhomie_.

"Jenny, dearest," he trilled. "What a treat it is to see you! I had quite given you up for lost. I hope you've been enjoying your stay? Although I dare say the natural beauty of Hertfordshire is no match for the attractions London has to offer." He flicked a meaningful glance in Jared's direction, then focused on Jensen with a knowing smile. "Come, sit with me. I've barely seen you since we arrived. How goes the hunt for the future Mrs Ackles?"

"It doesn't," Jensen replied coolly. "I've decided not to marry after all. It no longer suits my purposes to acquire a wife."

Rosenbaum's eyes widened a fraction, the only sign of his surprise. "Indeed?" he murmured. "There will be broken hearts all over London. May I inquire after your plans?"

"You may not." Jensen looked at him with open dislike. "I do not intend to share anything of import with you ever again. I came downstairs only to take my leave. We shall not trouble you any longer, sir."

"I see." Rosenbaum's gaze flicked between him and Jared, sharpening on Jensen again. "You are returning to the Wellings', then."

"Temporarily. After that, what we do is of no concern to anyone."

"We? You must be jesting," Rosenbaum said, staring at Jensen in disbelief. "You and this—this _cowherd_? You're playing with me, pet, surely."

He sounded so amused at the idea, dismissing Jared with a flip of one elegant hand, that Jensen saw red. He felt Jared tense beside him and shot him a wordless glance. _I'll handle this._

Jared blinked, subsiding reluctantly. Jensen brushed his fingers against Jared's wrist in silent reassurance.

"It's no jest, Michael," he said, steady and even. "I'm perfectly serious, I assure you."

Rosenbaum's smile faded, his gaze flying back and forth between Jensen and Jared. He let out a sharp bark of derisive laughter.

"Well, well," he mused, putting a gloved finger to his chin. "Who would've believed it? Our golden boy has a _penchant_ for the working class. The dirtier the better too, apparently." He shot an eloquent glance at Jared's hands, roughened and callused from work, then raked him from head to foot with a scathing look. "I wish you'd told me sooner, dear heart," he said to Jensen. "I could have arranged something much more suitable for you than this filthy, muck-raking wretch. Why, I'll wager he hasn't bathed in weeks."

"I beg your pardon." Jensen pulled off one of his gloves and examined his fingernails. "He bathed only this morning. I saw him with my own eyes—after we got out of bed, that is."

Rosenbaum coloured bright red, mouth opening and closing without finding words. Jensen waited patiently for him to respond, eyebrow raised.

"He's a _footman_ , Jensen!" Rosenbaum held out a hand in appeal. "A jumped-up stableboy. He's pretty enough, I'll grant you—but is it worth losing your entire fortune for a lackey who's only good for shifting furniture and being bent over it?"

The words hung in the air, tawdry and harsh and _wrong_. Jared went stiff, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Jensen put out a hand to stop him moving forward.

"I'll ask you to withdraw that remark, Michael," he said evenly.

"The devil I will." Rosenbaum's mouth twisted as he looked at them. "If you're lack-brained enough to choose him over ... your other options, you deserve to know what people will say. I'm hardly the first to think it, you know."

Jensen could feel Jared behind him, ready to act, but he was utterly calm. He stared Rosenbaum straight in the eye.

"Withdraw your remark, Michael," he repeated. "I won't ask you again."

"Go to hell, Jensen," Rosenbaum shot back. "And take this hulking slut with you. Not that he'll stay long, his kind never does—"

Jensen moved in quick like a striking snake, looming over him.

"One more word," he said softly. "Just one more, and I will demand satisfaction."

Rosenbaum paused, mouth agape, all the colour leaving his face in a rush. Jensen leaned in closer, the better to make his meaning clear.

"I'll only say this once. You will not speak to me again. You will not speak to my friend again, nor will you speak of him in my presence. If I hear that you have insulted him in any way, I will have my seconds call upon you. Your words are poison, sir, and _I will have no more of it_."

He stepped away and tugged on his glove, regret heavy in his chest.

"We'll be leaving now. I find I've had my fill of country air. We shall leave for London immediately; I trust your staff will see to our baggage. Good day."

Rosenbaum gave a short nod, eyes stormy and his mouth pressed tight. Jensen turned away without further comment. Jared waited for him, unmoving, his expression a mystery. Jensen crooked his arm; Jared slid his own through it without hesitation, and they walked out of the room without looking back.

"Are you certain that was wise?" Jared asked as they made their way to the stables, hands linked in casual affection. "Rosenbaum is not one to forgive easily, I'm told. Or to forget—ever—when he feels himself wronged."

"I don't give a damn about his feelings," Jensen declared. "He did not have a care for yours, or for mine; he insulted you right in front of me and refused to apologise, for God's sake. That is not the act of a gentleman. I cannot respect a man who does not respect my choice of companion."

"But it's not only Rosenbaum you need worry about," Jared persisted. "If he speaks of this, sooner or later the entire _ton_ will know and you'll be cut on all sides. Do you really want to take it so far?"

"I won't back down, Jared." Jensen stopped walking and faced him, putting one hand over Jared's heart. "I refused to let the _ton_ dictate who I could dine with when I first befriended Rosenbaum in school. I'm not about to let them—or him—decide whom I may or may not love."

Jared gazed at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. He gripped Jensen's wrist, long fingers curling tightly.

"Love?" Jared repeated, as if doubtful. Jensen frowned.

"Yes, of course." He gestured at Jared's buttonhole, adorned today with honeysuckle. "Devotedly so. Have we not settled this already?"

"Flowers are one thing," Jared replied, his eyes fixed on Jensen's. "Words are quite another."

"And deeds something else again." Jensen looked about them, then took Jared's hand again and grinned. "Come on."

They were close to the stables. Jensen drew Jared along as he headed for the hayloft, drawing the ladder up after them so they would not be disturbed.

"If it's words you want," Jensen said, "I shall gladly deliver." He pushed Jared down into a scattered pile of hay, kneeling beside his sprawled form. "Shall I tell you how much I adore you? Compose a sonnet to your beauty? Serenade you with a song of love so heartfelt as to make the angels weep? Or perhaps simply detail a list of the many ways I plan to ravish you over the coming months, until we're both so tired and fucked-out we can't see straight?"

He stripped Jared bare to the waist as he spoke, removing coat, waistcoat and stock in short order and drawing Jared's white lawn shirt up over his head, trapping his hands in the cuffs. Jensen grinned as he looped the tail of the shirt around the loft railing, ensuring Jared could not free his hands.

"Or perhaps you'd like to speak instead," he invited, "since you're so enamoured of the activity. Tell me what you desire of me, Jared. Tell me how I make you feel." He swallowed against a flash of doubt, sudden and sharp. "Tell me you want this as much as I do," he whispered, low and raw. "Please."

Jared's eyes were huge and dark, green eclipsed by black and heavy-lidded with need. He flexed against his makeshift bonds, the solid muscles of his chest moving smoothly under his skin, making Jensen ache to touch him.

"Tell me," Jensen said again, almost begging. He had Jared at his mercy, but he could not move until he was certain Jared shared his urgency. He never wanted there to be any feeling of ill-use between them. In this, they must be equal or it would never last.

"I want ..."

Jared's eyes were closed, throat moving as he tried to speak. Jensen waited, wanting to move, persuade, reassure—but they were still new to this. It had to be Jared's choice.

"I want you to strip me naked." Jared's voice was rough. "Tell me you love me. And touch me—please, God—with your hands in those gloves. I want to feel them on my skin."

"Where?" Jensen rasped, already so hard it hurt.

Jared met his gaze. "Everywhere."

Jensen caught his breath at Jared's plea, the words raw and rough as if torn from him. It was no hardship to comply; indeed, Jensen was already running his gloved hands over Jared's wide chest, raising gooseflesh on smooth skin and pebbling his nipples with barely a touch. Jared arched into it, his words almost unintelligible as he writhed under him.

"Tell me," Jensen commanded, leaning over him, one hand working at Jared's trousers. "Tell me what I do to you. Tell me what you _want_." He plunged his hand inside, closing soft kidskin around iron-hard flesh. "Talk to me, Jared. I need to know."

Jared's eyes were open, but he was staring blindly at the roof of the loft as Jensen stroked his body with one hand and his cock with the other. He twisted and flexed with startling ease for his size, legs shifting restlessly, opening wide when Jensen reached down to fondle his balls.

"I—I need," he gasped, focusing on Jensen dazedly. "Need you—yes, there, God—to say it. You love me. Say it. So long, I never thought—and then you—oh, _fuck_ , Jensen, fuck me, please, sweet Jesus—"

He convulsed in Jensen's hold, arms straining above his head until the shirt ripped with a loud screech of tearing fabric. The instant he was free, Jared jack-knifed up and bowled Jensen over backward, tumbling them both to the ground. They landed in a loose pile of hay, its dusty sweet smell mingling with sweat and musk in a way that set Jensen's head to spinning. He moaned as Jared bit and kissed his neck, tilting his head back with a rough hand to get access; meanwhile, Jensen stripped Jared's shirt away and ran his hands down his muscular back from nape to buttocks. Jared arched back, his entire body shuddering at the touch; Jensen did it again, and Jared all but melted into his hands, cock stiff and wet and rubbing against Jensen's belly with every sinuous move he made.

"More," Jared growled into his neck, dragging Jensen's hand around to his cock. "God, your touch—don't stop ..."

Jensen stroked him roughly, faster this time. The soft moist sound of kidskin on Jared's cock was obscene, slapping wetly, slip-sliding back and forth with such force Jared was soon jerking his hips uncontrollably. Jensen fumbled at his own trousers with his free hand; he was perilously close to spilling without a touch, like the greenest of boys. He freed himself and shifted closer to Jared, taking them both in his hand. When he felt the touch of his glove against his own flesh, he understood why Jared was so wild.

"Good Christ," he gasped, thrusting into his fingers, feeling soft leather and Jared's cock. "You're ... a genius, God—I'm gonna get us a kidskin _blanket_ —"

Jared laughed into his mouth, stealing his breath in a deep kiss that felt dirtier than anything he'd ever done. Jensen jerked twice, sharp and short, his climax taking him by surprise; he spilled naught but a few drops, too worn out for more, but it was enough to leave him drooping on Jared's shoulder. Jared pushed his face into Jensen's neck and shoved into his hand, hips rolling in a loose rhythm that made Jensen think of horses.

"Want you to ride me," he whispered, his free hand hard on Jared's hip. "Or maybe I'll ride you, next time; would you enjoy that?"

Jared let out a strangled sound and spurted messily into his hand, ruining the gloves completely. Jensen stroked him through it, rubbing his flank, fondling his softened cock as they caught their breath. Jared stayed close, pressing kisses under Jensen's ear and down his neck.

"Did you mean it?" he asked at length, hand on Jensen's chest. Jensen craned his neck to look down at him.

"Did I mean what?" He reached across and peeled the gloves off, tossing them aside and burying his hands once more in Jared's hair. Jared butted into his touch like a cat demanding to be petted.

"The riding," came his low reply. "And—the part about—about adoring me."

"To the first, absolutely," Jensen said, feeling a tingle of anticipation at the thought. "It would be my very great pleasure. And to the second ..." He paused, trying to contain his smile and failing. "Most definitely. Never doubt that, Jared. I'm afraid I am rather passionately in love with you."

Jared went still; then his arms tightened hard around Jensen, almost crushing the breath from him. He didn't say a word, but Jensen needed none. He dropped a kiss on Jared's hair and rested his cheek atop the spot.

Several minutes later he stirred, pulling away from Jared with regret. "We must go. The stable hands will want their hayloft back soon."

"I don't want to move." Jared sprawled in the hay, shirtless and tousled, the picture of contented debauchery. "Let's stay here."

"The sooner we're in London, the sooner we can obtain a hotel room and discuss riding in more detail," Jensen suggested.

Jared grinned up at him. "You make an excellent point." He got to his feet, grumbling at the remains of his shirt. It was torn almost all the way from collar to hem in the back, and was very obviously ruined.

"It will do until we reach London," he assured Jensen, shrugging back into it. "I'd not go back into the house for a fortune, let alone a fresh shirt. If I keep my coat buttoned, no-one will know the difference."

They rode out soon after, saddling their borrowed horses themselves. The bustle of the hunting party covered their departure; they left unnoticed, and minutes later were on the road to London. Jensen felt a wrench of disappointment as he resigned his friendship with Rosenbaum to the past; they had enjoyed many good times together, but he would not look back. He had other sights to look on now, the best of which was riding beside him.

Without the need to keep pace with a carriage or less skilled riders, they made excellent time. Their horses were fresh, the roads in good repair, and the day bright and breezy, perfect for travelling. They were on the road by ten o'clock; by half past four, after short intervals to rest and water the horses, they reached an inn to the north of the city and stopped there for a late luncheon.

Jared had grown more restless the closer they came to London; he hunched over their table, staring at the wooden surface and speaking in monosyllables. Jensen was at a loss to explain it, until he realised Jared likely felt uncomfortable about returning to face his employers.

"What happens now?" Jared asked at last. His expression gave nothing away.

"I propose that we ensconce ourselves in a hotel of good repute, then laze about in shameless hedonism for several days." Jensen hesitated. "After that ... I must return home. My stepmother will be expecting my arrival with a suitably bland wife in tow. I shall have to disabuse her permanently of that notion, and deal with whatever consequences arise." He angled a glance at Jared's downturned face. "Will you be joining me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Don't be dense, pet." Jensen rolled his eyes. "Of course I do. I'm hardly going to leave you behind after going to all this trouble to win you." He paused. "Unless you don't _want_ —"

"I want," Jared cut in. "I—yes. Yes." He ran a hand through his hair and looked up, a sheepish grin on his face. "Sorry. I—this is all a bit overwhelming."

"Don't be sorry. Be thankful I'm behaving myself." Jensen clenched his fists under the table. "I want to kiss you so badly right now it hurts."

"Shh!" Jared hissed.

"Don't worry. Nobody's paying any attention to us." Jensen smiled at the serving maid as she put bowls of rich beef stew and tankards of heavy golden ale in front of them. "Remind me to request a large bed at the hotel, will you? The largest they've got."

"Jensen! Stop it, before someone overhears and we're arrested for public indecency."

Jared sounded scandalised, but Jensen noticed the glint in his eyes.

"Promises, promises," he murmured in response, but he took pity and desisted while they ate.

It was a quick meal; Jensen wanted to be removed from the Wellings' house as soon as possible, the better to have Jared to himself—and also to avoid any attempts by Welling to change his mind. He was still having difficulty believing what had happened; that Jared returned his feelings and had admitted as much. What had Jensen ever done to deserve such bliss? He didn't know, but he didn't plan to question it either. Jared wanted him; that was the only thing that mattered.

When they arrived back at the Wellings' house in Manchester Square, Jared parted from him to give his notice and collect his belongings from the servants' quarters. Meanwhile, Jensen passed an uncomfortable half-hour with his hosts, drinking tea and pleading homesickness to Jamie as the reason for his sudden departure. By her comportment, Jensen guessed she knew nothing of his and Jared's connexion; Welling, however, was another matter. Jensen noted his friend's narrow-eyed stare and guessed that Rosenbaum had sent a telegram. It was another wrench to see Welling behaving toward him in such a cool manner—Jensen had thought that he would at least listen and accept, if not approve of the match.

"I have had word from Rosenbaum," Welling said, confirming Jensen's suspicion. "He says you left Hertfordshire this morning with the intention of running off somewhere with my footman, or some such nonsense. Jensen, have you gone mad?"

"I have not," Jensen replied evenly. "I have simply done what you did when you met Jamie. I followed my heart."

"That is not your heart, Jensen. That is your cock, and this fellow is leading you about by it. I don't say so to wound you; I merely speak the truth. You will be the laughingstock of the entire _ton_ if you do this—and what of your stepmother?" Welling raised an eyebrow. "She will be expecting you to return with a wife, not a servant."

"Then she will be sorely disappointed." Jensen got to his feet. "You will not change my mind, Tom. Jared and I are quite determined." He turned toward the door, then paused, not wanting to leave so sharply. "I apologise for depriving you of an excellent footman. I shall have an agency send you a suitable replacement before the week is out."

"Jensen, please," Welling began. "If you would just—"

"No." Jensen bit the word off. "No, and no, and no again, Tom. I will not reconsider. I will not pander to her Ladyship's will. I will not set Jared aside to retain my fortune or conform to the standards of the _ton_. You might feel compelled to do so; I do not." He looked at Welling, already missing their easy friendship. "I will have my hotel arrange for the transportation of my belongings. Thank you for your hospitality, and good day."

He executed a formal bow and turned on his heel, Welling standing openmouthed behind him. Perhaps in time they would be able to mend their relations; he hoped so, at least. It would be painful to lose Welling's friendship, more so than Rosenbaum's.

Jared met him on the street, standing beside his belongings in a plain brown coat that suited him rather better than servant's livery. He wore the tulip stickpin in his stock, and a wry grin on his face when Jensen came to meet him.

"That was quick," Jared observed. "I had expected you to be a while longer."

"Welling found there was not as much for us to discuss as he had thought." Jensen picked up one of Jared's suitcases and looked about for a cab. "Now, where the devil—aha. Cabbie!"

A cab pulled up at his signal; they handed up Jared's luggage to the driver, and Jensen directed him to the Savoy.

"We might as well abuse my stepmother's money while I still have access to it," he said with a grin when Jared raised an eyebrow. "Lord knows her Ladyship will cut me off the moment she gets wind of you."

"You don't seem terribly worried about it."

"I'm not destitute," Jensen assured him. "I have a small amount from my mother's uncle, and a thousand pounds a year from my grandfather after my next birthday. We shall have to scrimp a bit until then, but it won't be so bad. We shall find a little house somewhere, or perhaps go to work on one of my father's ranches, if you wish."

Jared closed his eyes, swallowing hard; when he opened them again, Jensen's heart thundered at the depth of emotion he saw therein.

"I don't deserve you," Jared said hoarsely.

"Too bad. You're stuck with me now. You'd best learn to bear up under the strain, love." Jensen peered out the window of the cab. "Ah, here we are. Would you prefer pheasant for dinner, or beef?"

Jared returned his grin with a heated glance. "Sausages."

Jensen refrained from pouncing on him until they made it to their room.

Barely.

* * *

They were still abed the next morning, breaking their fast, when there came a timid knock at the door. Jensen left off his appreciation of Jared's naked chest covered in strawberry jam and went to answer it, drawing his dressing gown about him.

A chambermaid passed him a letter with a curtsey. Jensen thanked her and shut the door, examining the address. It was from his father's solicitors in Dallas. Its postmark was six weeks old.

"What is it?" Jared dabbed jam off his chest with a napkin as Jensen walked back to the bed, staring at the letter.

"My father's solicitors have written to me. They must not have known I was here; this was sent to my stepmother's address and forwarded on from there."

"Well, open it then. It's not going to bite you."

"You never know with lawyers." He broke the seal and withdrew the letter, reading it aloud.

  
  


"Good God." Jensen lowered the letter and stared at Jared. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Her Ladyship's going to have _kittens_."

"I." Jared stared back at him, eyes wide. "Jensen, what—does this mean you—"

"This means, dear heart," Jensen said, "that as of four weeks and two days ago, I am filthy, disgustingly, ridiculously rich. To the point where I really ought to be embarrassed about it." He grinned suddenly, feeling light as a feather; pouncing on Jared, he shoved him down into the tangled bedclothes and started nuzzling under his jaw. "We are going to New York in _style_ ," he announced. "First class, all the trimmings, and double of everything for you."

Jared laughed, teeth and dimples flashing. "If you say so."

"I do say so. Right after I ravish you again, we're going out to buy our tickets. Then we're coming back here, and you can ravish me." Jensen grazed his teeth over the tendon in Jared's neck. "I believe that will take up the rest of the day, so anything else you want to do will have to wait until tomorrow. Or maybe the day after."

"Oh, all right. If you insist." Jared yawned. "I just hope I don't get bored."

Jensen grinned, stripping the sheets off Jared's body and kneeling between his thighs.

"Oh, I think I can keep your interest piqued."

* * *

They had a week at the Savoy before they were due to leave for Liverpool, where their ship was docked. Jensen gifted Jared with a different blossom every day, dozens of them, roses and carnations, lemon blossoms and cedar leaves, and once an enormous basket of bachelor's buttons that made Jared laugh at the irony.

"The name and the meaning are completely contradictory," he protested when Jensen threaded a purple bloom through his buttonhole.

"Not for us," Jensen said, smoothing down Jared's lapels. "We are decidedly bachelors, and we have hope and love. Besides, I think they're darling. They bring out your eyes. People everywhere will stop to stare at your gorgeousness."

"And then you'll growl at anyone who _does_ stare."

"Only if they get too close."

"Across the _street_ is too close?"

"... yes."

"You are ridiculous."

"Rubbish. You love it."

Jared refused to answer that, but Jensen noted the satisfied quirk to his lips when they went out walking. They took a stroll through the park most afternoons, Jared now decked out in sartorial splendour, looking quite as fine as Jensen—better, in Jensen's opinion, but he confessed to some bias on that point. Jared wore the tulip stickpin every day, and they shared a smile whenever they chanced to touch while wearing kidskin gloves.

The only awkward moment occurred when they passed Sandy one day, riding with a gentleman Jensen did not know. He tipped his hat and murmured a greeting, which she returned warmly enough, but he sensed her eyes on him when they walked on by. Jared said nothing, but his presence at Jensen's side helped to ease the twinge of his conscience. Sandy was better off with someone who could properly appreciate her. Jensen hoped she found that someone soon, the better to forget he'd ever existed.

By mutual agreement, they rode to Liverpool rather than taking a coach, exchanging post horses and staying at inns along the way. It was an easy two days' journey, with frequent stops for lovemaking, lying in late and turning in early. They played the parts of manservant and master in public, Jared always attentive and perfectly proper; Jensen had only to look at him, however, to see the sensual sparkle in his eyes and the slight curve of his lips that promised retribution later.

There was a telegram from Lady Ackles waiting for Jensen when they reached the Port Authority in Liverpool.

  
  


"She's just full of maternal warmth and charm, isn't she?" Jared asked, reading over his shoulder.

"You have no idea." Jensen provided particulars of their travel to the postmaster for reply, not bothering to share the details of his companion's identity. Let his stepmother believe he brought his wife with him; it hardly mattered now.

The voyage to New York passed without incident, excepting only that Jensen no longer kept up the pretence that Jared was his valet. They travelled as equals, sharing a two-bedroom suite for the sake of propriety and making sure to thoroughly rumple each set of bedclothes every night. "For appearances only, you understand," Jensen explained as he pulled Jared down onto him on the second bed, their first night aboard. "I don't actually want to be anywhere near you right now."

"Obviously." Jared fondled Jensen's erect cock through his trousers, drawing a moan from him. "I'll be quick, then. Don't mind me; just lie very still and it'll all be over soon."

"Small comfort," Jensen panted, before giving up the game and scissoring his legs around Jared's hips, bringing him crashing down onto the bed.

 

* * *

 

**DALLAS  
June, 1855**

They arrived in New York early on a Thursday morning, the cries of fishmongers and dockworkers filtering up from the street to wake them. From there they went by steamboat to Galveston, putting in at Cuba and New Orleans on the way, and covered the remaining miles to Dallas by stagecoach. It was nearly two weeks of travelling, always in public, never able to be overt with each other or drop their façade of mere friendship. The tease drove Jensen nearly mad every day, leading to the most delicious of adventures by night as they made up for lost time.

Dallas was hot and crowded, the stench of cattle rising on the wind. The streets were crammed with soldiers on leave, cowboys escaping after weeks of driving cattle, seeking liquor and female companionship. Jensen breathed it in and grinned, hands shoved deep in his pockets in a most ungentlemanlike manner.

"Happy to be home?" Jared asked over the din.

"You might say that. And you?" Jensen leaned in closer, glad of the excuse. "It's not San Antonio, but ..."

"Close enough." Jared's smile was bright and quick. "Home's where you are now, anyway."

"Flirt."

"Cad."

"Such language." Jensen tsked. "Whatever would her Ladyship say?"

"Let's find out."

"I suppose we'd better. This way; we can walk, it'll be quicker."

Jensen led the way out of the crowded main street into a quieter thoroughfare, still bustling but not jammed cheek by jowl with people. Lady Ackles had not troubled to send her carriage for them—his carriage now, Jensen remembered—so they had arranged for their baggage to be sent to a hotel in the town until Jensen saw how the land lay at home.

To his surprise, Jeff Morgan opened the front door to his knock. A huge smile creased the manager's face when he saw Jensen standing there.

"Jensen!" He threw the door wide, ignoring the housekeeper's sniff of disapproval. "I was hopin' you'd be back soon. Good to see you, son."

"And you, Morgan. Never knew you to come into town before." Jensen shook his hand and introduced Jared. "Morgan is—was—my father's overseer. Mine now, I suppose, if he can stand me well enough."

"I've got no worries on that score, kid," Morgan replied gruffly. "But as we're talking of business—I'm sorry to do this soon's you walk in the door, but I need to have a sit-down with her Ladyship about cash flow. S'why I'm here. We're dryin' up all over the place, and the men're starting to complain. They want to be paid, and I can't blame 'em." He looked at Jensen hopefully. "Can you have a word with her, maybe? Get her to loosen up on the purse strings? She won't listen to me no more."

"I'll handle it." Jensen clapped him on the back. "Come see me in a week, and we'll sort it out."

"Music to my ears." Morgan grinned. "You and your daddy—like two peas in a pod."

"I hope not," Jensen murmured to Jared after Morgan left. "The man married a harpy and worked himself to death."

"I'll save you," Jared offered. "From the married part, anyhow. The working part might be a touch more difficult. Looks like you've got some catching up to do."

"You're right. God only knows what sort of mess she's made." Jensen squared his shoulders. "Time to face the dragon."

He headed for the drawing room at the rear of the house, Jared a step behind. His stepmother was taking tea; a brash blonde woman of some twenty-six years, she had dazzled his father upon their first meeting, and he had married her over his children's objections. She looked up when Jensen came in, her expression cool.

"Jensen. So nice of you to grace us with your presence at last."

"Milady Paris." Jensen watched her lips tighten at the hated moniker. "I trust you've been well."

"Well enough." She looked him over, curling her lip at his dishevelled state and ignoring Jared completely. "Where is your bride?"

"I don't have one," Jensen said cheerfully. "I couldn't find a woman to suit us both, so I have returned unshackled." In law, at least; in fact, he was tied so closely to Jared they were breathing in sync, but there was no need to let her Ladyship know that.

"I see. And what of your obligations?"

"They're no concern of yours anymore," Jensen replied. "Don't trouble yourself, milady; I'll see things are set to rights."

"I beg your pardon," Lady Ackles snapped. "Nothing needs 'setting to rights', and your obligations are my direct concern. Your father left me in control of his estate, and it is my task to see that you discharge your family duty. If you are unwilling—or unable—to do so, I must do it for you. I will not have our fortunes given over to that unwashed lout in Oklahoma."

"I'm not the only Ackles left in the world, you know," Jensen pointed out. "My sister has three perfectly acceptable sons, not an extra finger or toe on any of 'em."

"Your sister is not the topic of discussion," Lady Ackles retorted. "I do not mean to allow you to avoid your responsibilities any longer. You will marry to my specifications, Jensen, or I will see to it you are turned off without a penny."

Jensen stepped forward, dropping his casual affectation. "Don't threaten me, Paris," he said softly. "I don't dance to your tune anymore."

Lady Ackles regarded him with a smirk, clearly thinking it a bluff.

"The pup has grown teeth," she said. "We shall see how you enjoy sharpening them on thin air." Her voice hardened. "I want you gone from this house within the day. You are cut off, until such time as you agree to my requirements. The baronetcy is yours; but it is an empty title with no lands attached and will bring you nothing but a 'Sir' before your name. I wish you joy of it."

She sat back, obviously expecting his immediate capitulation. Jensen smiled and produced the solicitor's letter from the inner pocket of his coat.

"I don't think so." He handed her the missive. "Here; you may be interested in the contents of this."

She read slowly, colour draining from her face as she reached the end. Jensen gently took the paper from her limp hand, tucking it away.

"You may stay here until I have found a suitable house for you," he told her. "I'll be lodging in town for the moment, until the estate is dealt with. I'll also take over management of the business effective immediately. Don't worry, milady; I won't turn you out on the street. You'll even keep your title, if you wish. But make no mistake: I am in control here. Your threats and schemes are done with."

She started at his last words, brilliant red staining her cheeks. Jensen smiled pleasantly.

"I thought so. Did you forge the first will, or simply hide the second? Not that it matters in the end; my father clearly was not so besotted with you as I thought. That's good to know." He gave her a short nod. "I'll send word when I have found accommodations for you. Good day."

He left the room without waiting for a reply, Jared following silently. After a short stop in the kitchen to leave a message for Morgan, giving his direction, Jensen made a beeline for the front door and all but snatched it open, eager to be gone. The moment the door thudded shut behind them, he slumped against the vestibule wall and gulped a deep lungful of air. Jared was solid and warm at his shoulder, bracing him up; Jensen leaned into him with a sigh.

"Oh, my. Call me ungentlemanly, but that was _fun_."

Jared laughed, his voice low and smoky-soft in Jensen's ear. "Sounds like it."

"Very satisfying." Jensen straightened up and adjusted his cravat. Jared watched him, an unreadable expression on his face. Jensen tilted his head. "Something on your mind, pet?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"At the risk of sounding like a whining child: what about me?"

"I beg your pardon?" Jensen stopped and stared at him. Jared gave a little shrug and smiled uncertainly.

"I just—there isn't—what am I going to do while you're running around fixing the Ackles empire?" he asked.

"Run around and help me," Jensen said, puzzled. "Or go to school, if you like. Travel the world, or do nothing at all. It's entirely up to you."

"You'd want me to help you?"

"I want anything you'll give me." Jensen brushed his finger quickly over Jared's lips. "If you truly want to spend your days deciphering ledgers and analysing breeding patterns, I won't stop you. But you must do what _you_ want, Jared. Unless that involves leaving me. I'm afraid I would have some concerns about that."

"'Some concerns'," Jared repeated, looking sideways at him. "You flatter me."

"Well, it wouldn't do to admit that I'd fall to pieces and probably crawl inside a bottle to die if you left, now would it?" Jensen hooked his arm through Jared's and pulled him into the street. "You might form the notion that I can't live without you, or something equally preposterous."

"We can't have that," Jared agreed, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Jensen turned to look at him and his breathing stuttered at the raw heat he saw in Jared's eyes.

"Er," he said, searching desperately for coherency. "I, uh. Um."

"Yes?" Jared's grin flashed quick and bright as he pulled Jensen against his chest, arms locked tight around his back. "Do you have something to say, _sir_?"

He leaned in and caught Jensen's bottom lip in his teeth, nipping gently.

"Oh, Lord save us," Jensen sighed. "Don't start with the 'sir' business. I can't take it. I'd forgotten all about that."

"Thing is," Jared breathed, "I rather like it. In fact, I'm so riled up right now, all I want to do is drag you someplace quiet and do things that are very _inappropriate_. Sir." His lips brushed over Jensen's, butterfly kisses that set Jensen's mouth to tingling. "What're we gonna do about that?"

Jensen ground against Jared's hip, feeling their cocks lined up hard by each other. He grabbed a handful of Jared's hair and pulled him in for a proper kiss, rough and deep, tongues seeking each other slippery-soft; then he wrenched himself away and went into the street.

"Cabbie!"

A hackney appeared out of the bustle on the street as if by magic. Jensen gave the hotel's direction and slid inside, Jared tumbling in after. They landed in a heap of limbs as the cab jolted into motion, Jared solid and heavy atop Jensen's sprawled-out body in the corner.

"Oh dear," Jared drawled, eyes glinting. "We appear to be in a most compromising situation, sir." His hips pressed down heavy and sweet, rubbing deliciously, teasing them both.

"My sincerest apologies," Jensen gasped. He spread his legs wider, breeches pulling tight across his crotch. "Please do tell me how I might—ah, yes, _oh_ —make amends."

Jared grasped his cravat and yanked him up so they were nose to nose, his eyes aflame with want.

"Y'all can take me somewhere and fuck me," he growled, sounding Texan to the bone. "Now. And maybe then I'll forgive you." He nosed along Jensen's neck, kissing softly. "I love you, you know," he whispered. " _Je t'aime. Ich liebe Dich. Ti amo. S'agapo_ —"

"Don't leave me," Jensen whispered back. "Go anywhere you like, do anything you want—but never ever leave me."

"Done and done," Jared murmured, and kissed him to seal the bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N #1: All floral interpretations taken from Our Deportment, or the Manners, Conduct, and Dress of the Most Refined Society; including Forms for Letters, Invitations, Etc., Etc. Also, Valuable Suggestions on Home Culture and Training. Compiled from the Latest Reliable Authorities, by John H. Young, A.M. (Detroit: F.B. Dickerson & Co., 1883), courtesy of In the Garden: The Language of Flowers
> 
> A/N #2: The Transatlantic Telegraph Service was not fully operational until 1866, eleven years after the setting of this Story. The Author humbly prays, Gentle Reader, that you will allow the exercise of Creative Licence in this regard.
> 
> A/N #3: It is doubtful whether a Hackney service was in operation in Dallas during the 1850s. Again, the Author requests the Reader's patience with such elasticity of Truth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp: Jensen and Jared in Texas, just after they've settled in since moving there from London.

Jared was in the office updating the stud book when Jensen banged the door open and stalked inside, a sour look on his dusty, stubbled face. Jared raised an eyebrow at him and made a final notation, closing the book and putting it aside.

"Paris?" he asked. Jensen slumped into the chair across the desk.

"Paris," he confirmed. "That damned woman is a bigger pain in my ass than anyone I've ever met."

"What's she been doing this time?" Jared got up and rounded the desk, massaging Jensen's shoulders. Jensen tossed his hat on the desk and leaned back against Jared's stomach, exhaling heavily.

"She wants to get married," he said, eyes closed.

"Well, that's a good thing, surely?" Jared said. "If she's wed to someone else, she can hardly come running to you to make good on her debts."

Jensen opened his eyes and shook his head, meeting Jared's gaze.

"She wants to marry _me_."

Jared stared at him, his mind utterly blank for a long moment. "She _what_?"

"I'm her best opportunity for a comfortable lifestyle, it seems," Jensen explained darkly. "She can't find a suitor that meets her complete approval, but apparently I am the next best thing."

"What on earth makes her think you'll agree to such a thing?" Jared said, incredulous. "The last time you saw her you nearly _shot_ her, for God's sake."

"I wish I had," Jensen muttered. "She's threatening to make it known that I am, shall we say, undesiring of female companionship." He spat the words out, shoulders a hard line of tension under Jared's hands. "If I acquiesce, it will be a marriage in name only, of course. She does not wish to share a bed with such an immoral creature as myself."

"I'm going to kill her," Jared said calmly, gripping Jensen tightly. "Slowly and painfully, with lots of time for screaming."

"May I hold your coat while you're at it?" Jensen asked. He sighed again and sat forward, hand covering one of Jared's. "I escaped without giving her an answer, but we're going to have to think fast. If she carries out her threat, we could be in real trouble."

"She wouldn't actually do it, would she?" Jared argued. "She'd lose all chance of getting your fortune if she did."

"Our fortune," Jensen corrected him, nuzzling briefly into Jared's hip. "You underestimate just how miffed she is, love. It irks her no end that I prefer your presence in my bed to hers. Or anyone else's."

"My heart bleeds for her, truly," Jared said dryly. "What are you planning to do?"

"There's only one thing I _can_ do," Jensen said. He grinned and folded his hands primly in his lap. "Proclaim my impotence to the world, and make dear cousin Christian my heir."

Jared stared at Jensen's gleeful expression and felt his heart swell for the thousandth time. Jensen was willing to become a laughingstock, an object of pity, rather than forsake their bond even in name.

"I don't deserve you," he said in a low voice.

"Well you must, because nobody else is getting me," Jensen quipped. "Including Milady Paris. Let her try cosying up to Kane if she wants a fortune of her own so badly. I'd like to see that."

Jared grinned at that image despite the tight fist of love in his throat.

"I hope you don't have to," he murmured, and squeezed Jensen's shoulders once before letting go.

He didn't pursue the subject. They'd had their share of knock-down, drag-out arguments on the subject of Jensen's money, and Jared had never yet emerged victorious. He had come to understand that Jensen valued him more than family, money or name; strange as that seemed to Jared, he knew by now that it was useless trying to change Jensen's mind on the matter. And if it gave Jared a deep thrill to know he _mattered_ that much ... well, he need never mention it.

"Kane and Paris," Jensen said dreamily, grabbing Jared about the waist and pulling him down over his knees. "Just picture those two staring daggers at each other over the breakfast table."

"Kane would probably throw actual daggers, you realise," Jared pointed out, looping an arm around Jensen's neck.

"Probably," Jensen agreed, and he sounded so delighted at the prospect Jared couldn't help but laugh.

He leaned in and stole a kiss, deep and tender, sliding his lips down to Jensen's throat.

"You're a very bad man," he said into warm skin.

"And you love it."

"Eh." Jared shrugged elaborately. "It's amusing from time to time."

"Amusing, am I?" Jensen stood up, hefting Jared over his shoulder in one breathlessly smooth move. "Very well. Let's see if I can _amuse_ you to your satisfaction, sir."

Jared clung to Jensen's shoulders and gasped out a laugh as Jensen pelted down the hallway to their room.

"It's the middle of the afternoon!" he protested, making no attempt to get away.

"All the better to see you, my sweet," Jensen drawled, kicking the door shut behind them. He tumbled Jared onto the bed and loomed over him, eyes alight with lust and love. Jared thought it the best sight he'd ever laid eyes on.

He held out his arms; Jensen groaned and fell into them. Within moments they were lost in a world of their own making, in which all things were well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp: Jared's first sexual encounter. 
> 
> WARNING: Underage, dubcon.

The schoolroom is eerie without the murmur of noise that usually fills it. The scratch of chalk on slate; low-voiced conversation; the rustle of starched shirts and the creak of unoiled hinges; this is what is missing, Jared thinks. The sounds of learning. Without those, this place is just a room.

But then, that's why they're here. They needed a room, quiet and undisturbed; when Ben leaned in close and whispered hotly into his ear, Jared knew where to bring him. He wonders what it says about him that this is the first place he thought of.

It doesn't matter now. What matters is that Ben is pressing up against him, kissing inexpertly across Jared's jaw and neck while his fingers make short work of their flies. Jared leans back against his father's desk and lets it happen, submitting to this golden boy, his father's star pupil, with a future brighter than the sun. Ben is destined for the law, the military, politics; he is the boy everyone likes, the one the girls sigh over, the one all the mothers want to coddle and the fathers wish they could claim.

"Let me," Ben pants desperately, hands scrabbling at his skin, and Jared feels like a god.

He shifts forward, enough to turn around; braces himself across the dark expanse of mahogany, head pillowed on his arms.

"Do it," he says. His heart is hammering in his chest, his palms are wet and his cock perilously close to spending, but his voice comes out steady and sure.

There's a breathless pause, as if the world is tilting. Jared breathes deeply, trying to calm down. Then Ben is pulling his hips back and dragging his breeches down, laying heavy over him to bite hard into his neck. Jared bites his fist in turn, ignoring the pain, focusing instead on the feel of the boy on top of him, his want, his frantic thrusts as he struggles to get skin on skin. Jared likes this; the thrill of having someone this perfect at his mercy, even as he's being bent in half. Ben is breathing harshly into his neck, rocking against Jared's hip, two fingers already in his arse, and the realisation of his own power is almost better than the jolts of pleasure going up his spine.

Jared spreads his legs a little further, tilts his hips and says in a breathy voice, "Fuck me, Ben. Please."

He can feel the moment Ben loses control. One minute those fingers are there, twisting pleasantly with a hint of burn; the next, Jared is pressed down flat with Ben's hand on his back while he guides himself in. It's not pleasant at all; Jared has no leverage, no room to move or adjust, so he can only crouch there and wait until the relentless push is over. It does end, eventually; Ben sighs a shuddering breath and begins to fuck, and after a minute it's not so bad. There's a place inside where Ben's cock rubs against him, and it makes Jared's toes curl and his arse clench. He tries pushing into a stroke, to get more of that feeling, and Ben moans and starts fucking faster.

"Wait—" Jared pants, trying to get a hand down to his cock, but Ben grabs his wrist and pins it to the desk, pushing harder, his thrusts shoving Jared into the sharp edge of the wood. He can't take a breath, can't get away, and it panics and excites him at the same time. He subsides, letting Ben use him, feeling the cool pulse of Ben's orgasm deep in his vitals as the other boy sprawls across his back.

The room is full of heavy gasps, the plink of slowly dripping liquid and the rustle of cloth. Jared files these sounds away in his memory. He doesn't want to forget this.

Ben pulls away after a moment, leaving Jared free to stand. He feels wetness between his thighs and is, for a brief moment, vaguely proud. His cock is still red and stiff, begging for release, and his blood is singing, but Ben barely looks at him as he puts his clothes to rights.

"Don't tell anyone," Ben says, and Jared nods. Ben flicks his hair off his face, satisfied, and saunters out of the room.

Jared slowly puts a hand on his cock and strokes himself to climax. It's over quickly; two strokes and he's spilling into his hand, neat and tidy as always. He brings his hand up and tastes himself; it's bitter, already going cold.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Honey Flower, Apple and Lime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/693628) by [derryderrydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown)
  * [[Podfic of] Honey Flower, Apple and Lime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709196) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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